Slytherin's Monster
by Silirt
Summary: In a world without Harry, the Heir of Slytherin wreaks havoc unrestrained on Hogwarts and the magical world. Still recovering from the unrecognized return of Voldemort with the Philosopher's Stone, can the students survive? Second year AU; sequel to The Boy Who Died.
1. Prologue: Madam Department Head

Dolores Umbridge regarded the young woman across from her with no scant amount of respect, despite the occasional difference of opinion.

As far as she knew, Enid Bagnold was a driven bureaucrat like any other, yet her career took her to _field work_ for the Department of Mysteries rather than to more sophisticated spheres. In her Hogwarts days, the older witch remembered dreaming about the top position, though her Head of House, Horace Slughorn, had entirely different ideas about her abilities. It was no secret he had favorites.

"I am unsure of exactly what you mean."

"Well, I want to know why you want a letter of recommendation," Dolores clarified. "In the interest of an open, risk-free dialogue that I may engender in such a letter, it would be beneficial to know what position you are trying to achieve."

"As the head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, you would be the most qualified as my most recent employer before the Department. I believe you and I are on the same page where it counts, and I have always respected your great achievements." The younger witch took a noticeable breath. "It is my intention to apply for the position of Supreme Undersecretary to the Minister." The idea raised Dolores's eyebrows and pursed her lips at the same time.

"Truly?" she asked, gathering her thoughts a moment. "You are not aware of any _other_ candidates for the position? Would there happen to be any with more experience than a girl, or rather, a young woman of nineteen?"

"I'm afraid not- I checked only this morning." As Dolores pondered her options, she took out her file on the younger witch before her. The daughter of the previous Minister, she would have remembered the bittersweet moment of the Dark Lord's demise. Taking in interest in politics during her time in Hogwarts, as a Hufflepuff, she was selected for a placement program after her O.W.L's which placed her in the Improper Use of Magic Office while completing her education. In the position, the head of the office remembered the girl taking a special interest in dark magic and its practitioners, though she remembered cautioning her about the impropriety of going after the old families with their secretive ways. Though she would never admit it, she was a half-blood herself, and as a result she placed very little credit in the veracity of blood purism. At the same time, their power was an attractive thing indeed and adding it to her own would be an essential step in the process of becoming Minister before retirement. In response, she remembered only that the girl briefly nodded before telling her that knocking on the door of Mulciber Manor was not on the agenda.

"I believe I have the required materials- one business day should be sufficient, providing for delays in the mail." Only recently she had divined a rather clever ruse to make the owl post system seem unreliable, and an essential component would be carping about delays at every opportunity- the complaints would spread, and sooner or later no one would notice if an owl arrived late, perhaps with a dazed look to it, if the birds had such an expression.

"Of course," Inspector Bagnold responded, nodding. It had been quite the period since she had returned from her duties, but there was the requisite debriefing as the sole Inspector to leave on her feet, followed by a lengthy legal process. It was no surprise her more questionable decisions garnered no meaningful consequence, though there was a nominal fee extracted from her account for 'damages'. _I expect there are those who know more about what that entails than I. Well, they have their jobs and I have mine._

The young woman had already left when she looked up. Dolores had every intention of handing off the thankless task to an assistant, though she would of course sign it, having provided sufficient pointers to the dull young man. He never seemed to be able to approve the wand-destruction orders without looking over the file at length to evaluate the reason provided. He would never make it far without learning to follow orders, and even then he would still need to learn to skip tedious procedure. _Ah, well, that's why I have him. Hufflepuffs- perfectly predictable.  
_

"Thank you, Madam," he said as the letter hit his desk. _At least his manner is in order._ She entertained the notion of his saying 'Thank you, Madam Undersecretary' briefly before taking out a form of her own to fill out. For an even shorter amount of time, a sensation of guilt sneaked up on her, competing with her former employee even as she was writing a letter of recommendation, though she perished the thought, since the fact that she was recommended for the position would do Miss Bagnold more favors than she needed. No, the position of Supreme Undersecretary belonged to the most experienced of the department heads, and while Amelia Bones had some years on her, she was uninterested in the finer points of politics.

In all likelihood, the Inspector would regain her post, but as there was not another Hogwarts excursion for a few years, she would have other work. It was a view the two of them shared that going to the school but once every three years was hardly sufficient in rooting out undesirables, though for some reason young Enid continued to insist she was looking for dark wizards, despite the Inspections having turned up nothing of the sort in decades. While it was of some interest, the real purpose as far as Dolores was concerned was the intelligence on potential rebels. With the return of the Dark Lord, she had no doubt Cornelius would claim it was that Quirrell gone mad, but there would be those who would not believe it.

Keeping a lid on things would require a firm hand and a watchful eye.

There was an odd case of dark magic in Cokeworth, of all places, and she owled a warning, printing the time of sending about an hour before she actually sent it, giving the impression the owl was late. The Trace, as a ward that had been overlaid on all of Britain, had limitations in complexity- even with the most learned wardens, it was impossible to determine a precise location or even the wand that was used, but they had prior incantations to placate the fussier members of the DMLE. Of course, that was the wand and not the caster, but under her leadership the Office of Improper Use of Magic had successfully muddled the distinction. She remembered hanging her hat on the wizard's responsibility for his own wand and the general notion that it was hard to use another's, though really the end was to snap as many wands as possible.

And as always, the ends justified the means.

Though it was only the result of their inability to brew Polyjuice potion and use the Imperius curse, the muggles were putting wizards of Britain to shame in terms of law and order- something that her administration would correct. Muggle Britain was a safe place to live, and it was in no small part due to the inability of the citizenry to resist continued increases in government control. As far as she had put together, their metal wands were being quietly taken up one by one, rather like the goose being plucked slowly enough to keep it from squawking. It would hardly do to start with the older families, but only because they could rouse the rabble if need be and pride permitted. If the vast majority of wizards were lacking wands, all their warding and ancient magicks would count for naught. Of course, it would be impossible and inefficient to keep the population from using magic entirely, but there were other options to consider.

The blood purist Cantankerous Nott had explained that squibs were victims of a magical genetic disorder, and still possessed a modicum of magic, capable of the odd feat like expecting an old friend to come to the door. There were wizards incorrectly diagnosed as squibs, mostly those with the misfortune of a disability of sorts, and while uncommon it did happen from time to time. In recent years there was a gimmicky correspondence course called Kwikspell that promised to instruct the magically inept, though she imagined true squibs would have little use for it. In any case, it would likely serve as a safer alternative to Hogwarts, where magical knowledge was concentrated and students may even bring their own. In the event it nationalized the operation, the Ministry could effectively ensure that the Kwikspell program was only teaching only the basic spells required for performing jobs, though getting there from the current state of affairs would be a challenge.

She remembered Enid had impressed the adjudication on her N.E.W.T.s with a warding of her own invention that would notify her in the event dark magic was being used by a particular wand. By applying the general principle to spells progressively more viable in combat, her administration could begin to curb the ability to resist from one angle, while transforming the education system from another. It would be easy enough to manufacture consent for the wand warding, after all, who wanted to use dark magic? Death Eaters, that's who. Of course, she would be cold in the grave before taking a single wand from a known criminal, as criminals were of a distrustful, solitary nature and hardly posed a threat to the Ministry, but would more than sufficiently drive the average citizen closer to her administration for protection. The wands of common criminals and Death Eaters would go entirely unwarded and unregulated, even in an absurd alternate reality in which that were remotely possible. A man wanted for murder had little to lose by hiding a cache of stolen wands in a warded tree hollow.

Dolores decided she would really have to ask Miss Bagnold about the ward spell she was using.

Of course, without the Inspectors, the Ministry, or the Department of Mysteries at any rate, had lost its eyes and ears into Hogwarts, which was relatively unsupervised as places in Wizarding Britain went, and as a result was the most likely place to foment rebellion. With something to give the _Prophet,_ she could convince them to spin last year's events as an example of the school's inability to resolve problems on its own, rather than the Inspection forcing the Headmaster to devote his energies, both mental and magical, in an effort at protecting the contents of his students' precious little skulls. He had spoken at length regarding the 'travesty' of extracting confessions by Legilimency, perhaps not realizing he could be employing it himself to inspect the Inspectors, though it seemed he held onto the outdated notion of privacy within the mind.

She waved it away. Spinning the story would be easy enough, it was primarily a matter of convincing the _Prophet_ to assist in the endeavor. Essentially, the paper traded credibility for pushing a narrative- the more they pushed, the more they would have to work to string facts together, and the more readers they would lose. To sustainably lie for any period of time, the paper would need some miracle of credibility, and that was unforeseeable.

"Madam-"

"Yes?" she responded, breaking from her plotting.

"There is a letter for you," the young wizard explained unnecessarily as he left the article on her desk before returning to his own work. Tutting momentarily, she picked up the missive to check the sender before filing it, but she found there was no sender. _It could be the DMLE at it again._ Opening the letter, she found the parchment with a black ink that lacked the usual shine the ink from Ministry inkwells displayed. The handwriting was spectacularly neat, almost like calligraphy.

 _Madam Dolores Umbridge, Head of the Office of Improper Use of Magic,_

 _It is with great pleasure I contact you for the first time, though circumstances do not permit that I see you in person. I am familiar with your policies and methods from the words of my old friends. Lucius Malfoy was especially helpful and I highly recommend you work with him closely, as I have come around to his value as an ally after deliberation. In good faith, I have not instructed him to monitor you.  
_

 _On more unpleasant matters, I must deliver a warning of vital import- there are those in the Ministry who will not see matters as you do and regrettably they will act as I now predict. Rather than embrace my return, Minister Fudge will insist it has not taken place, which will delay my efforts considerably. As I am sure you are already aware, I have already regained full power and amassed nearly all of my former following, but without recognition I cannot expect to establish control over the Ministry, and as such I shall be unable to advance your position. For this reason, I ask you to immediately halt all efforts at tracking dark magic and recognize the Death Eaters as a legitimate organization. If you are unsuccessful in this endeavor, I am afraid Britain will be lost forever to the bureaucrats of the Ministry, and I shall be unable to forcibly remove the rootless half-bloods from government._

 _In perfect solidarity, Lord Voldemort_

Dolores smirked as soon as she finished reading the letter. Though it seemed the old wizard was perfectly unaware she was actually a half-blood she seriously doubted he would use any power she helped him to gain to advance her. She did not fail to notice her fellow Slytherin's implication that he could be monitoring her activity, but it seemed he had no intention of doing so, and would be unlikely to start as long as she made one public effort to have the Death Eaters recognized. Of course, she would be doing all she could to keep that recognition from taking place. By his own admission anonymity would do the Dark Lord no favors, and he had made it perfectly clear that a decade of being dead had taught him little about subtlety, but she supposed her first clue should have been his one-man invasion of Hogwarts disguised as Quirinus Quirrell.

From what she remembered, the Death Eaters had taken an open approach, intimidating seats in the Wizengamot to gain a controlling interest almost immediately after being recognized. The boldness of their plan took the Ministry by surprise, ordinarily rebel groups waited until the iron was hot, but the Dark Lord made the iron hot in striking. Gaining the blood purists in short order, he moved on some of the related pure families, though only a paucity succumbed to his influence, with enough resisting that there was a task force created in the Aurors specifically to track down Death Eaters, spearheaded by Crouch.

Leaving her office, she headed to the elevator in the main atrium, making a quick trip down to the Department of Mysteries. If Enid Bagnold was out and about, they were done questioning her and the memory was compiled. As the head of the Improper Use of Magic Office, she had a valid claim to the information gained, as it might shed some light on dark magic being used at Hogwarts. It occurred to her that this was a privilege she would lose as Supreme Undersecretary upon being promoted to the position whenever the old crone in it left or died. That minor issue could be corrected by granting the office of Supreme Undersecretary full survey over the Improper Use of Magic Office, whoever ended up as head. It was something to consider.

The familiar dark corridors of the Department of Mysteries appeared before her with a ding of the elevator announcing she had reached Level Nine as she went to find the Primary Secretary, whose name escaped her.

"Hello. I-"

"Are you here for Inspector Bagnold's memories?" the man asked without looking up.

"Yes, I would be most grateful-"

"Hall of the Mind, down that way," he directed. "Say her name at the door." Dolores supposed it was in their interest to make it seem as if they knew everything. In all likelihood, Enid told them to expect her, or they gathered that from the debriefing. She made her way to a roughly circular room that branched off into twelve doors in a cool blue light from the torches. Muttering 'Enid Bagnold' before opening the door to the appropriate room, she imagined all sorts of security measures were in place for those trying to gain access to Ministry secrets without authorization.

The great room contained some desks around a rather large tank of green liquid, the purpose of which she could hardly guess, only that it would probably not allay the off-putting feeling she was getting from it. Books were strewn about on one of the unattended desks, and a cursory glance informed her that they mostly concerned Legilimency and Memory Charms. Reaching, at last, the Pensieve before taking a last glance at the other oddities, she was pleased to find the memories had been archived in an organized manner, myriad rows and columns of small glass phials to accommodate each one.

"Fifteen June of this year, 1992-" she read on the appropriate label, emptying the contents into the basin without delay.

The plunge into the past revealed a strange scene, Enid Bagnold staring blankly at her interrogator.

"Enid Bagnold- or should I call you Ebony?" Unspeakable Croaker started. "Details, I know, and properly details we shouldn't be considering, but what's the rush?"

The invitation to lighten the mood fell as steadily as the expression on the wizard's face.

"Perhaps then we should broach the matter of our greatest interest."

"Perhaps," the Inspector said, merely moving the conversation along.

"What we would like to know is very simple," Croaker started, putting both of his elbows on the table. "What were you able to discover about death?"

A smile almost broke on Enid's face.


	2. Heir of Malfoy

Draco walked silently behind his father, keeping his measured, deliberate pace.

"There was a time when I had hoped this day would come, but now I believe it has come too soon-" Lucius Malfoy started, staring straight ahead at the door to the Grand Ballroom. "You are my son and a fair boy in your own right, but there is much you need to learn to prepare yourself for war."

"I can do it, Father. I shall not fail you."

"I have no doubt of that. Your mother and I know you will honor the family name, yet we would hope you do not die in the process." He opened the door with a wave of his wand. "For that reason and many others, we need to accelerate your training- and correct areas where you are lacking."

"I'm not- I must protest, Father, I did well on my final marks," Draco argued.

"You did well enough _compared with the other students_. Average, however, is not always enough. Would your mother leave you in the hands of an average Healer if you were grievously injured?"

The ballroom was empty.

"I don't believe so." He had never been injured as badly as that.

"Worse yet, the mudblood outscored you in every category- don't think I don't know." The boy supposed he should have realized as a school governor, his father would be among the first to read the magically compiled class rankings. Deciding he was talking about Granger, as he doubted any of the other first-years were beating him by that great of a margin, it had not occurred to him that the girl was a mudblood. If anything, she might have spent much of her life among muggles, but being fraudulently raised by them made little sense, given her evident abilities. "Do you realize what this means?"

"I could be doing better," he attempted.

"You could be doing _significantly_ better. If a witch raised to be completely ignorant of her magical heritage can outperform you, the scion of our Most Noble and Ancient House, you have squandered every advantage we have provided." Draco forced his tears to remain invisible, cursing his lacrimal glands. "I should think you would be ashamed, even in light of your circumstances."

"Father, the teachers have favorites- they're all Dumbledore's people-"

"Severus has favorites and the mudblood is not one of them. Not only has she outperformed you, she has outperformed the entire rest of your House."

"She was already twelve at the beginning of the year."

"If by her own virtue she can overcome Severus, you can overcome the most blatant favoritism Dumbledore can imagine," his father concluded, silencing his excuses. In truth, he knew he was making excuses and he would have to do better. On the other end of the room, there was a man being veritably dragged in, conjured black chains binding his motionless form. A grim-faced Amycus Carrow held his wand aloft, doing most of the dragging while his sister Alecto bound yet another chain around the unrecognizable man. Draco had been formally introduced to the two of them only in the past few days, though he ignored the mocking playful winks Alecto directed at him. If the Dark Lord ever found out about his first kiss, he would never become a Death Eater.

It had been a summer where he found his days and nights staring at books, wondering what sort of joy the Granger girl derived from them. The most difficult to understand concerned genetics, a Muggle science. Essentially, magic was a 'dominant trait' in that it was expressed in all children with at least one magical parent, with pure-bloods having two copies of the magic allele and half-bloods having only one, making Muggle children a common occurrence in half-blood/muggle relations. Squibs, occurring in pure families from time to time, were something of a genetic disorder, the result of what was called a 'chromosomal abnormality', which he was still trying to put together. The truth left an unpleasant taste in his mouth as it always had, and having been fed lies by the _Prophet_ and the approved reading material made him angry, but it was a kind of righteous anger he could direct.

"Son, you must never confuse blood purism with the Dark Lord," his father had said to him as he poured over books, likely the illegal kind. "He is not a true purist, nor is he even pure himself, whatever Aunt Bella would have you believe. Decades ago I indirectly asked a few questions regarding Cantankerous Nott and his work and the very concept escaped him. He is a great wizard and has been a great help to us, but he is not the master we allow him to believe he is. Rodolfus's and Rabastan's father, Arimanius Lestrange, knew him personally as a boy- he was a half-blood named Tom Riddle, born of a muggle father and a witch from the Gaunt line."

Draco imagined his father was responding to his expression as he continued.

"I imagine he was terribly ashamed, though he did claim Gaunt lineage, bearing the family ring for a while. With every expectation he will be a powerful ally in restoring Wizarding Britain to its rightful order, we must not simply allow him to rule it."

"Father... I can't help but ask- why is it that we need him?" he remembered inquiring. "It seems he's as much of a threat to us as the Aurors."

"Perhaps, but the greater threats to magic and our lines lie with Albus Dumbledore and muggles, the former weakening us and the latter poised to destroy or enslave us the moment they learn of our existence. To prevail against them we require allies, and to this end we have joined with the Dark Lord and some of his more fanatical followers, regrettably including your aunt." Draco swallowed, remembering having met Aunt Bella in Azkaban once.

His mind returned to the present as they stared at attention, greeting the new arrivals as a proper lord and scion, a curt nod in recognition of their station. As he understood it, his father had only a moderate amount of respect for the two of them, as they were the useful kind of mad and at least were pure-bloods.

"Lucius Malfoy- here we are, the three of us together again," Amycus started, trying to engage his superior in conversation before the rest arrived, which they would do on foot or be eviscerated by the warding. The man was a stocky sort, looking rather like a pig. To Draco's chagrin, his sister was much the same, deepening the wound to his pride.

"There are others, to be sure. The Dark Lord will not want for help." _Of course, some of them are still in Azkaban- the Lestranges, Dolohov-_ "Consider inventing a reason you denied him after he died," The Lord Malfoy admonished, not needing to remind them that his position in the Ministry would make up for his lack of loyalty.

This was not Draco's first clue that his father had never been under the Imperius Curse.

From researching it with the mudblood, he knew that falling prey to the curse required a weak will, or at least a relatively weak one, and his father had neither. He was, of course, more than capable of pretending to be controlled, and as it was common knowledge the Dark Lord had used imperiused bureaucrats to do his bidding, he had essentially secured himself in the unlikely event the Death Eaters collapsed.

Around the time he asked his father about having willingly served, his father imparted him with a mote of wisdom.

"Draco, perhaps you would do well to spend some more time with the French Malfoys. Had you absorbed more of the tongue as a lad, you would know the meaning of the name the Dark Lord chose for himself."

Looking through a few books, the answer revealed itself like a riddle unraveling.

He had initially thought "Flight of death" referred to the ability to fly unassisted, an entirely unprecedented ability from what the books were saying, but the truth was more complicated. The Death Eaters were not the ragtag rebel group most people believed them to be, but a disciplined army with a chain of command. Their positioning in the Wizarding War, however, did not resemble a chessboard, but a defensive encirclement. In the Dark Lord's eyes, they existed to shield him if need be, because however powerful he was, a large enough fighting force could overwhelm him. His body had been transformed by delving deeper in the Dark Arts and the magicks of lost ages and distant lands, his eyes a glowing red and skin chalk-white. From what his father had written, he would place wards and enchantments on his own body to keep himself alive, his skin was fire retardant, his spine was reinforced to keep his neck from snapping, and his lungs even contained a wind rune of some sort from Samarkand that provided him with air whenever he needed it. Professor Snape had been tasked with making an impossible amount of potions, each with purposes Draco could not but guess.

Voldemort flew from death, denying it as the right and natural end to life, rejecting it entirely. As the pieces came together, Draco realized the real reason he learned to fly unassisted, despite the best broomsticks being available to him, was because he would not risk the tool being destroyed, however slight the risk might be. Most men accepted death as reality, and accepted an amount of risk to life and limb as one day they would die all the same. The Dark Lord was not paranoid, nor was he afraid, his actions were perfectly rational in the context that he had no intention of ever dying, not of natural causes or any others.

Amycus and Alecto went to welcome the other guests.

Yaxley kept a respectful distance from his father, and a disrespectful distance from Macnair, Crabbe, and Goyle, avoiding them as though his time was being wasted by merely being in proximity to them. The familiar surnames did not choose to bring their sons, though Draco supposed that was really the standard, though his father could hardly leave him at home. Rowle made an impression, a blonde giant with a short temper, waving off the new money Gibbon, who seemed to irk him. Selwyn stood silently, as if waiting for an opportunity of some sort. Though he had not been alive to remember the pair of them, it was strange to see Avery without his friend Mulciber. As he understood it, their fathers had been friends in the Dark Lord's original gang, a band of boys desirous of greatness. Nott, who usually had his nose in a book, scanned the ballroom intently. The last to enter was Professor Snape, though he reminded himself his Head of House was off hours.

"I expect absolutely no pretense of favoritism by the Dark Lord to be mentioned here for any purpose," the Potions master started, as though heading off some excuse a Gryffindor might use to derail class. The slightest of nods from his father indicated the motion was seconded. "With all of us effectively equal-" there was a snort from Rowle. "Is something amusing?"

The greater part of them turned to look at the massive wizard who was making little effort to contain himself.

"We have heard about you, Severus. Bound to the ceiling of your own office like-"

"I was bound to the ceiling by the Dark Lord himself, as he saw fit to impersonate me rather than ask me to aid him. If this detail inspires a drop of uncertainty about me for any reason, I suggest you voice your challenges now."

"Are you suggesting I _challenge you to a duel_?" Rowle asked in a wheeze, growing more amused.

"I am suggesting I would accept," Snape explained rather clearly.

"Gentlemen-" his lord father started, cutting off the rising tensions. The Potions master knew how not to escalate things, but the same could not be said of Rowle. Draco wondered if the Sorting hat might have considered Gryffindor. "We are deciding how to respond to the return of the Dark Lord." It occurred to him that Malfoy Manor was perhaps the only place in the world that would be safe from his Legilimency, as the ancient warding would prevent it entirely should the master of the house desire. From boyhood he had felt a distinct sort of safety at home that could not quite be recreated anywhere, least of all Hogwarts, what with the Ministry Inspection. Not for the first time he wondered if the return of the Dark Lord was a good thing, and he expected many of the occupants of the ballroom had wondered the same thing in recent months. As most of them had not spoken to each other since the Wizarding War, he doubted most of them wanted anything to do with each other.

"This is a great day for magic, the day the Death Eaters form once more," Selwyn opined, taking a decisive step. With something of a generational gap between most of them, Draco standing out as the youngest, it seemed fitting one of the oldest among them would start. _The die is cast. Now anyone who says anything against the Dark Lord knows he will be reported by Selwyn._

"A day great for purity is a day great for magic," his father clarified, possibly trying to insure the others knew they were really fighting for blood purism, not their master. He mentally shook his head as he was rarely fewer than three steps behind his father. It was a good supposition, but nothing more. "With the return of the truth of purism to wizardkind, we can reverse the effort made to undermine our existence."

There was a palpable silence.

"Simultaneously, however, we have to come up with a solution for the real problem." The mood darkened considerably as his father spoke. They had all long since been aware that the task with which they were faced was not an easy one, nor would it be something they could fix overnight. The Muggle Threat had only grown with the advent of computers, advanced warfare, already Muggle armies could successfully suppress small rebellions, which had previously been a logistical nightmare. With the dawn of the Internet, a mass communication technology like the Floo Network, but connected to computers, there were double records of everything, leaving virtually no way of picking off a muggle without an absence being noted. In the old days, wizards could at least obliviate the friends and families, and if they left one it was little enough of a problem, as being the only one who knew of a missing muggle was taken as a sign of madness. By contrast there was virtually nothing they could do about electronic records- should even a single definitive piece of evidence make it to the Internet, Secrecy was done for. It had been the early seventies when the great families of Magical Britain realized the imminent doom waiting for them, and as they began to talk among themselves it was concluded that the loss of Secrecy would spell such a perfect disaster that no possible solution should not be considered, and no expense be spared in its execution.

The Dark Lord himself predicted that he could no longer quietly continue his research of magic in his quest for immortality, any jeopardy of wizardkind was one of his, and he mobilized the Death Eaters to gradually increase the pressure they were putting on the Ministry, taking it by force if necessary. His efforts were of course undermined by the ungrateful, and ultimately he died, but not before getting his supporters in government, which the blood purists among them had taken as a windfall. With a decade or two, they could eventually work magical genetics in as an upper-level class in the Hogwarts curriculum, but with the return of their master, all the subtle, insidious plans were up in smoke. They expected their brands to reignite before long, and with that they would be bound to service once more. As an illustration, his father asked him to imagine an army sent into a country to secure an objective, retreating after losing their commander, making new plans for inroads and then rediscovering their commander years later, returning as if nothing had happened.

"We are not without recourse against them any longer," Snape explained at considerable length. "Though their martial capabilities are notable, they have yet to learn to heal themselves. I propose a plague."

His father seemed to consider the idea, but Avery rejected it.

"It's too complicated. We might end up killing wizards, even if we could cure it easily. Spilling pure blood is a sickening thing, even if it's from our enemies." Gibbon appeared to agree. As an upstart, he had little going for him apart from his pure status, which Lord Malfoy privately found dubious. "What we need is something we can control- we need to ward the entire world." _An ambitious plan, but one expected of a Slytherin._ "Think of what we could do to them with a simple blindness ward- as long as we're spread out far enough-"

"I would like to see the Arithmancy before we proceed with this lunacy," Snape interjected. "Warding is not the simple matter you imagine it to be, and wards of that scale have never been _attempted,_ much less _used_." In the silence that followed Draco watched a smirk form on Avery's face, then spread to Yaxley as he pieced it together, Rowle finally- his father and Selwyn had looks of concern, bearing a sharp contrast.

"That is exactly why I can be sure the Dark Lord will want nothing more than to design it himself." Avery explained at last, for the only remaining occupant of the room yet to unravel the private joke they shared.

Draco maintained a neutral expression.


	3. Bring Your Nearly Youngest to Work Day

"I still don't believe that's why I'm here. I reckon you've found some other reason to drag me out to Godric's Hollow of all places," Ron mumbled, looking over his shoulder at the sound of a hooting owl, which seemed entirely too close for comfort. _When the bloody hell do I start getting numb to danger?_ He straightened, keeping pace with his father- _or owls at least?_

"Well, when you start back at Hogwarts I won't see you for months."

"Won't see Ginny either," he muttered, not loudly enough to be an openly disrespectful declaration. He thought about his parents spending the year mostly alone, Percy popping in occasionally while trying to get a job at the Ministry. He had voiced plans to move to Muggle London, which was cheaper living than the magical bit, but more of a commute every day.

"Your mother can't quite believe it yet," Mr. Weasley said as they found what appeared to be the ruin of a little house. "We'll be visiting Bill soon enough." The property had what remained of a decorative black iron fence around it, possibly where the warding might have been tied.

"Is there an enchanted Muggle artifact around here or not?" Ron asked, almost audibly annoyed. He had known more than he liked about his father's post at work, which he was certain he took entirely because he found the nonmagical fascinating. The young wizard found them interesting enough from what he knew about them, but he hated having to hide from them. There were none around in the wizarding country of Ottery St. Catchpole, which made for a strange first excursion to their world, all those years ago.

"We're looking for a flying motorbike. This is where it was last seen," the Head of the Misuse of Muggle Artefacts Office explained.

"You're not looking for it to figure out how they did it?"

"I'm hurt, Ron, I'll have you know I have no intention to _use_ that car, and this is something I was asked to do," his father responded, a brief sign of humor in his voice.

"When was it last seen?"

"Halloween, 1981." Ron looked at his father suspiciously.

"Is that when you were asked to look into it?"

"In my defense, it was Perkins's job, he just never got around to it," he started as they looked around the ruins, not expecting to find much. "I had more important things to do that night."

Ron was stock still, staring at the magical graffiti on a destroyed wooden beam. They were words of sympathy, though for the life of him he had no idea who was meant to read them, as no one lived here.

"Dad- is this where the Potters were hiding?" His father came and sat on a nearby beam, as he was too tall for his father to talk to him from a knee.

"Ron, I'll never find that motorbike. I took Bill here to look for it, just so happened to be after his first year at Hogwarts. Most of my boys were too young to know what was going on, but he knew about the war. He used to hate the way I would be gone all the time, working with Dumbledore, well, for Dumbledore. I don't believe anyone's worked with him in a century. Your brother used to wonder what it all had to do with us." He paused, perhaps lost in thought. "I took him here because he wanted to come with me- couldn't accept the fact that I had to work more after taking as much time off as I did. He asked me who lived here and I told him that the Potters fled here because their young son was the subject of a prophecy. I don't understand it myself, but basically he was going to kill You-Know-Who if he didn't get him first- you should have seen the warding Lily placed, I thought I would die just looking at it."

It was perfectly apparent to Ron that the whole thing failed, but he failed to see how or why.

"What happened?"

"He found them anyway and killed all three of them," his father said as the young wizard was beginning to figure out what was being said here. "I didn't ask Bill if he'd have liked to have something to do with the war. He didn't have much to say."

"Did you take Charlie here?"

"I've taken all my sons here. Not sure about Ginny- I won't tell your mother if I do." He ran a hand over his eyes before continuing. "Ron, the soul of courage is that you have a choice. I had a good choice. The war didn't have anything to do with me, I involved myself. I suppose I involved my whole family and if they don't like it, they can hate me for it. Every time I thought about leaving, I knew I'd be leaving the Potters to fight alone." He stood, leading his son out of the ruin. "They couldn't very well quit. If they tried, the war would find them."

"Dad, are you saying you're going back? Are you going off to fight again?" Ron asked, following him out hastily, catching sight of a little cemetery in the middle of town.

"I'll do what I can." There was a gate to the graves, which his father opened by hand. "I know the dangers."

"Is that why you took me out here?" _Because you might die?_

"I took you out here because I heard you took two Slytherins to fight You-Know-Who himself. That was very foolish of you, but also very brave. You need to know the meaning of courage, Ron. It's not like it is in books or the Muggle pictures. Being brave means going up against the very real risk of dying, son. Your mother and I don't want to lose you. Not now, not when you're older." It looked like his father was doing his best to keep a stiff upper lip, which was not something the Weasley family really had in its collective wheelhouse, among other things. "The war took a great many people from us, Ron. By all reason, against all hope I reckon it will take a few more as it returns. It is right and natural to be afraid, Ron. I would be more worried if you had no fear, and not just for the sake of your mother and me."

The young wizard was unsure as to how exactly he would respond to the rehearsed speech. Not remembering the last war, he doubted he fully understood the fear, but he knew enough to realize that days were dark and in some way, his parents had impressed their fear of Voldemort upon him. He had never realized it before coming to Hogwarts, where he had been surprised to find there were students who did not refer to the dark wizard as You-Know-Who. It put the way his parents raised him into a strange perspective, which he had given a lot of thought over the past few months.

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley had protected their children well enough in Ron's view. At some point he learned that it was appropriate for parents to conceal fear, going so far as to lie about their expectations of the future. His parents, however, were not terribly good at keeping secrets, and from Bill and Charlie, who remembered bits and pieces of the last war, he knew that they had been afraid. Even in Ottery St Catchpole, the Fawcett family was attacked by a group of rustic wizards, and though no one died it was a grim reminder the Death Eaters did not need to personally mobilize in most cases.

His father took him home by Apparation rather than the Floo Network, in his words preventing Ron from tracking soot all over the house and his mother exploding into more soot. He did not enjoy the implication that he was _always_ going to track ashes into the house; his choices were his own. All the same, his father left for work before he could complain, turning back to the Burrow alone.

He had been allotted little enough time to sit a broom what with the practice Fred and George always seemed to want. It did not help matters that flying around made him a potential target, as his mother would constantly remind him. She had warned her sons about playing roughly with wands, but it seemed her concern with dark wizards and flying translated into the need to practice spells.

Despite their double-talking insistence to the contrary, the twins always seemed to play on a team, which was well enough on Gryffindor's Quidditch team, but served to annoy Ron and as a result he set himself to working on potions in his room, playing chess with Percy whenever he was over. The graduate had gotten better over the last few months, suggesting he had chess games of his own to play.

Ginny was getting an old wand from Aunt Muriel's school days, as well as the 'new set' of robes, though the difference was little enough that she hardly noticed. He would have to let her borrow his glass phials and cauldron for the first day, which was fine by him, as only his materials for the current year were being tested. Fortunately the twins would be able to hand down many of the books they had used second year, but they meant to keep a few. He mentally shrugged, knowing a bit of what they were trying to do.

Despite himself, he looked over his work prior to the last day, but could not bring himself to actually read. Experimentation seemed to serve as a better teacher for him, or at least that was what he would tell Hermione. He had not been in contact with her all summer, mostly because he lacked an owl to send her letters and he had heard that ideally they were not to go through Muggle London, or close to it. It really made no difference, as he had no idea of what to say to her and he would see her soon all the same.

Thinking on his schoolmates as he sneaked out to fly after dark one night, he decided he would have to visit Neville sooner or later, though it did not seem to matter when, since he would be in the same condition for the remainder of his days and for the life of him, Ron had not managed to work up the nerve to ask his parents to take him. For some reason facing a mad version of the friend he lost required a different sort of courage, or something else entirely, which he lacked either way. He decided it did neither of them any good if he lost sleep over it, and his mind shifted to Hermione, who seemed distinctly unlike herself the last he had seen her. Taking off on the broom and nearly shivering in the night air, Ron decided it was fair, since things might not have turned out the way she had expected, seeing the magical world. He remembered his first visit to Muggle London, in which he had expected to find fascinating people with wondrous inventiveness, but really most of them were normal, except not able to do magic. They had many of the same problems, but that was only from what he could tell.

He would do his best to avoid Malfoy, he had decided. As little as he liked the pompous git, they had fought on the same side once and really he was better off not getting into needless conflict, definitely not after all it cost him. Having had a long time to think about it, he decided he had simply hated Malfoy for no good reason in the beginning, which made it easy for him to find good reasons as the term wore on. Whether the Slytherin was part of them or not, he simply had bigger concerns than a stupid grudge, as little as he liked it. He would not mention any of this to Hermione, as she had often enough gotten onto him about their rivalry that he imagined she would say she had told him so.

Really the only variables were Malfoy's henchmen, as he knew where they placed their loyalty, but for some reason they were not total dunderheads. He supposed a casual observer would have seen Neville as a buffoon, hanging around Hermione in hopes some of her intellect would rub off on him. Ron knew better. Neville was jumpier than he would have liked and there was no denying he was forgetful, but it was a bright mind that was lost the day Voldemort cast some work of dark magic that drove the young wizard to madness.

He stared out over the dark landscape as he finalized his plans for the coming term.

Ginny would be his responsibility. Fred and George were more capable than he was, but in his view they were a bit preoccupied with other projects, and would be less inclined to take it seriously. If they valued anything apart from comedic value, it was unknown to him, and he could not rely on their help. He reminded himself that George had unwittingly helped him get into Quirrell's office, and he was grateful that his brothers had been mostly good sports about the prank, but only because it provided them with a justification for pulling jokes on him. He was painfully aware that he knew little more magic than his younger sister did, but practice made a world of difference. And as was essential in any board game, there was something to be said for preparation.

The potions he had been trying to brew were more advanced than what he was meant to be learning, and it was showing consistently. He would be thinking he was doing everything correctly, then by the fourth or fifth step the whole thing would fail inexplicably. When he had more resources at school, experimenting was a way to make the detentions less life-threateningly boring, but at home he quickly discovered that garden gnomes were not suitable substitutes for much of anything. He figured the twins were getting ingredients somewhere, but they swore it was nowhere close by.

From time to time he wondered about the toe on Scabbers's foreleg, even though Bill backed them up that he was like that the whole time.

On his brothers, Charlie had visited once to take him to Diagon Alley, where he saw Seamus, a welcome change of pace. It was fun being out without any _real_ adults around, though his elder brother was meant to be acting one.

He would have liked having a teacher around when one of the Death Eaters led a strike on the local bookstore, Flourish and Blotts.

The masked man was unidentifiable, of course, but he had to be one of the ones who had avoided Azkaban. There were a small crowd of wizards dressed like everyone else keeping the crowd away from the tall, slim man and the skittish looking manager, not at all prone to confrontations.

"Stay here," Charlie muttered, suddenly turning serious. Unstopping a bottle from his coat, he drew forth something purple that looked like a salamander or skink.

"Who are they?" Ron asked, noting Seamus already had his wand out.

"It doesn't matter who they are. They're helping a Death Eater- probably old friends," he said, nearly spitting it as he waved his wand over the strange creature. Ron was well aware the old families could rouse the rabble- rustic wizards from the quieter parts of Britain, as magical London mostly answered to the Ministry, no matter who was leading it.

"We can-"

"I wouldn't like to see you try," Charlie cut Seamus off as quickly as Ron drew his wand to second the motion. Through the stunned crowd, it was clear the Death Eater wanted a book on something, though he was having trouble imagining what. He had been under the impression the ancient houses had libraries that went to the roofs with tomes even older. The older Weasley heaved the creature he was carrying into the circle of wizards keeping the crowd at a distance as a handful of Hit Wizards from the Ministry came to contain the scene. The salamander radiated heat, which seemed to absorb spellfire, from what Ron could tell as he tried to get through the crowd, some among them emboldened by Charlie's decisive action.

Breaking through as the salamander radiated with heat, scorching everything around it, Ron arrived only just in time to see the Death Eater Disapparate as law enforcement dueled the remainder of them. He stared at the scene, the act of totally random brutality upon the flighty looking old wizard trying to pick himself up with his enemy gone. He felt Seamus take him to the ground as a stray curse sailed over them, bodies moving all about as the scene devolved from an interesting spectacle into a chaotic mess of simple curses and the occasional dark spell that the crowd seemed to decide it was best to avoid, but was unable to figure out how.

" _Flipendo_!" the other boy shouted, managing to hit someone in the knee as they got to their feet and tried to leave, catching sight of Charlie dueling one of the sympathizers. He nearly tripped over something invisible, which he picked up despite the shouting from the Irish wizard.

When at last the dust settled and they were away from the excitement, Ron largely ignored the subsequent conversations taking place around him regarding unnecessary risks and following reasonable orders. He had figured out what had bothered him and continued to occupy his mind about the events of Diagon Alley. It went beyond what he had seen happen to a helpful old wizard or even the Death Eaters managing to regain a modicum of support.

What unnerved him was the sheer randomness of the event itself.

 _Time for a change of plans._


	4. The Normal World

Hermione was entirely caught up on her assignments, and to a degree she could say she was enjoying school more than she ever had in her life.

In summer classes she made a few friends rather easily, and since no one knew her she decided to ask the teachers to call out her name as 'Jean'. She appreciated the uniqueness of her first name, but it was impractical to expect people to be able to spell it, or pronounce it if they saw it written. She had been embarrassed by a teacher failing to read it properly enough times (three) for her to give up on the minor point of pride. Jean was a nice name and it was given to her, just the same as Hermione was.

The coursework was easy enough, though she had been preoccupied with everything else she had learned, she had been ahead in normal school, and was very quickly ahead of the curve in summer courses, which her parents likely did not believe she needed. They entertained her notion of being behind, and she elected not to hold it against them when she found out how quickly she got to be ahead again. At supper one evening, she had brought up being promoted into the next level, at which point her mother's eyes were smiling and her father reportedly laughed audibly. It was a gradual process of realizing that most of her life she had overestimated the difficulty of schooling, and simultaneously become something of a perfectionist, making her significantly more stressed than she needed to be.

"Hi, Jean," a boy named James said amicably as she walked to school, meeting him half-way as always. It was close enough to her house and her fear of strangers was less of a factor than it had been previously. He had longer blond hair and rather piercing blue eyes, and not only was he bright, he was a hard worker as well, which was generally the case. Hermione had met more than a few students in her day who seemed to think they were 'smart, but lazy', though she rarely agreed.

"Hi, James. Are you going back to Eton after you're done here?" 'Jean' asked.

"I've been thinking about it. It's pretty likely." His language reminded her most children had little choice where they went to school.

"I'd go with you if I could-"

"There are plenty of girls' schools, and they're all just as good," James reminded her. Most boys her age essentially did not believe in gender bias, which was fine, since it was worse in the magical world anyway. She found that she got along with boys a bit better than girls, though in summer courses she had run into a few girls who had more in common with her. Hermione imagined that if she went to a girls' school, there would be enough of them there that she would meet someone she liked. At the same time, the probability of drama was also worse, though she did her best to stay above that.

Seeing the kindly old man from down the street on the way to school was the only peculiarity of the morning.

Her first class was History, and she remembered with a momentary half-smile that it had taken her a few weeks to stop calling it 'normal history' in her mind. The topic of discussion was the decline of the Empire, which she found more controversial than she had expected, probably due to the current possession of Hong Kong, though there had been talk for years of it being given to China. One of her classmates, a boy named Creevy who was likely in the program due for 'remedial' purposes, insisted that it would be the final nail in the coffin of the Empire if Hong Kong were simply given to a foreign country. The first nail had been the American Rebellion, which essentially proved to the world the crown was too weak to hold onto colonies. 'Jean' respectfully disagreed with the viewpoint, but refrained from entertaining the boy in lengthy discussions.

"Jean, what are your thoughts on the reading?" _Well, I suppose._ The instructor seemed to have a habit of calling on her whenever someone else was 'wrong'.

"I think what the text is trying to say is that in more modern times, under Elizabeth II, we have a system that relies on voluntary cooperation rather than military force or economic pressure." _Really, if you look at India's case, the fact that all they had to do was say 'no' proves-_ "It seems the point here is that a truly beneficent crown would need nothing other than the interests of the colonies to retain trade relations." _Well, they had to do somewhat more than say 'no' and they had to say it for years on end, but really no military action was required to oust the Company, as it really could only function off voluntary cooperation._

She went outside on lunch break, following James, who for some reason suggested going to the park. Taking a road where she could be seen, it occurred to her that she had not been in any public arbor since the first day of summer holiday, when she met the wizard with one of their newspapers. _This is not the same one, though._ She was, of course, bringing a lunch, though it appeared her friend did not have an appetite for much apart from conversation, which she found engaging. It was a refreshing change from the usual level of detail and pace of the discussions in class, and she found the boy knew more than she had previously thought about genetics, a subject she had studied only as it was becoming relevant in school. The center of the park greeted them with a fountain and scrap metal sculptures, though James's favorite area was a tunnel under a pedestrian bridge, with just a bit of overgrowing vines.

"I like to come out here sometimes. It's light all over, and it's nice to see some place without the glaring streetlamps in my eyes- even during the day- it's simply distasteful."

"I suppose. I don't really mind well-lit areas," 'Jean' muttered, looking around. "It makes me feel a bit safer." _I suppose it causes light pollution and is a waste of energy during the day._

"That's what I thought you'd say, Mudblood. _Petrificus Totalus._ " Hermione's form went stiff the moment every danger sign in her body went off at the same time, leaving her feeling like she was about to explode, but was stalled somehow. " _Mobilicorpus_ " Her arms and legs were moving again, but she was not in control of them. _This is something that requires a good degree of skill. He's actually manipulating my limbs to make me walk.  
_

"Nott." She tried to turn at the sound, but found herself entirely unable. _I've really started to hate this curse._ "We're leaving."

"I know." The voice from James's mouth was almost entirely alien. Hermione's sense of panic seemed to be as frozen as her jaw, though her face was white as a sheet. "Now give me the invisibility potion, you disabled sloth." Nott muttered, taking something from the new arrival and forcing her mouth open, admitting a vile solution, the effects of which were of course invisible to her. What she could see was the transformation of James into an old man with a long beard, though it was a wonder no one noticed.

"I didn't know you needed it," the disabled sloth explained.

"Were you going to _walk out of the park with the mudblood_?" the impostor asked. "You think she hasn't got a thousand and one methods of signalling to her little friends that two strange old men are kidnapping her?" the old man asked, audible contempt in his voice. "If I hadn't cast half a hundred Muggle repelling-" Both of them were silent as they passed by a stranger. Hermione found herself caught between wanting the random man to bump into her and wanting no one else to get involved. _I was stupid to think I could get away- I can't even be sure what they want with me._

"Gibbons are hardly sloths," the other man protested, walking silently somehow. "You're calling me incompetent and you don't even know how to drive," he muttered as they approached a Rolls Royce at the edge of the park. He was visibly younger, though it seemed it was hard not to be, given Nott's long beard and stooping posture.

"Drive? _You think I should learn to drive?!_ " It was almost a scream, though both of them were doing the best they could to keep a low profile in the most expensive car on the road, parked with flagrant disregard for convention. They scanned the area before forcing her into the back, the older wizard's railing muffled upon the slam of the door. Hermione's warning signs flared up again as they entered and turned the key, though the two of them had fallen into silence, both visibly angry with each other.

 _I must focus, I musn't be stupid- I must-_

"I can't believe we're taking this much care over a mudblood. In my day we'd have ripped the information from her mind on the spot," Nott muttered at length.

"She's not really a mudblood, those don't exist. She's a war orphan." _How do they know who I am? Why do they think I'm a war orphan?_ There were other questions fighting for dominance in her mind, but to answer them she would have to escape the certainty of her stunned disbelief, the logical universe that allowed her to reject the possibility of being kidnapped at random _.  
_

The old wizard seemed to disregard the explanation.

"Properly we should be pitying her," the driver decided. "Grew up without knowing a thing of her heritage- can only imagine what her parents would think."

"We can only imagine _who her parents are,_ " Nott reminded, again insisting Hermione had magical parents. She had read about the prejudice about wizards and witches from normal families, but she had imagined something significantly milder.

"Sorry if this is the first you've heard of it," the younger man said, taking his eyes off the road a moment. "My name's Gibbon- I grew up like you, only longer ago. My parents were killed and I ended up in an orphanage for a while, then a madhouse when I told them my parents were magical. Had to grow up as one of _them._ I got my letter, of course, but every summer they sent me back- I learned to leave my stuff at school. I worked odd jobs to feed myself until I was out of school- '75, might have been. The war was a nightmare." They took a hard turn and she guessed this 'Gibbon' character hardly practiced, if that was even his real name. "It's a real shame it has to start all over again."

"No, the war is necessary. Some of us are merely apprehensive in the face of uncertainty, where before it was the pale-faced hopelessness of extinction," Nott muttered. "Necessary _to the war effort_ is its commander, and he has requested the interrogation of any who may know of the Philosopher's Stone." _What? Voldemort has the Stone! Flamel told him how to use it! What more does he want? Why can't he and everyone else just LEAVE ME ALONE?!_

They arrived at a townhouse with a garage. _I suppose if they can afford a Rolls-_

"Gibbon, don't tell me you live here," Nott appeared to be looking over the exterior of the property.

"Don't tell me you don't see the use of a house just outside London. It's cheaper than you'd think, with the exchange rate- and we can't just go killing them for their homes, not yet anyway." Hermione had a distant memory of the currency exchange when buying the required books and other materials. Her parents had never been without money, but that was partially due to responsible spending. It was a painful thing seeing them grimace as they went back to the exchange counter for more.

The younger wizard closed the garage door before the older one took her out of the car. _No one was going to see me anyway-_

In moments she was in a sitting room with wards reacting to her presence. _This is a safehouse. I have to assume no one will find me._

"Hermione Jean Granger, Number 30 14th, currently enrolled at Primrose Summer Session, legal dependent of Dr. and Dr. Granger, born 19 September 1979 in Paddington Hospital, London, we have a few questions for you," Gibbon started as Nott nullified the full-body-bind. "What is the rate of decay of the Philosopher's Stone?"

"How did you find me? Why do you think I know?" she asked defensively. _At least I know they're dark wizards._

"You do not need to know," Nott said as he raised his wand. _I didn't need to know your friend's life story._ "You will tell us or you will face swift, violent consequences."

"Nott, she's a war orphan. We have no reason to harm her," Gibbon argued in a bizarrely empathetic voice. "We have spoken to several students who told us you basically read the whole library, including works on alchemy and Flamel's work." _That's an exaggeration._ "Your first name and a basic description was enough to find you."

"You're the only 'Hermione' in the phone book and London was the first place he looked," Nott explained quickly. "Now tell us about the Stone."

"It doesn't decay," she said hastily, her mind whirring. _They'll kill me the moment I'm done answering questions- even if they know how to erase memories, they'll have no reason to keep me alive._

"It _doesn't_ decay? I suppose you think we don't know-"

"No, really- the Philosopher's Stone you have is the same one from hundreds of years ago," she explained without allowing Nott to finish his accusation that she was insulting him. "If it decays at all, we'll be gone before it is," Hermione amended.

"Very well, can it be destroyed?" _That's an odd eventuality to consider. Has he not used it yet? Does he plan on using it for other things?_

"It can," she answered at length, the confusion evident in her face.

"Any possibility of destroying the Stone has to be considered," Gibbon explained.

"It would be easier to just toss it into an ocean," Hermione offered, knowingly delaying. "If it ever falls into the wrong hands, it's gone."

"Are you saying it's resistant to summoning charms?" Gibbon asked before Nott could raise his wand again. _He's going to hurt me- he's actually going to hurt me-_

"It's not an enchanted object," she started uncertainly. She had heard of summoning charms, but was unable to perform them competently as of yet. It occurred to her she had her wand, but she could hardly escape by magic. It would be years before she was able to Apparate, and portkeys were even more difficult. "It's something that's magical- well, it has specific alchemical properties in itself, and enchantments can't be placed on it."

"So it can't be summoned," Nott pressed. _I suppose alchemy is relatively unknown to most wizards. Hogwarts may have been the last resource in the world on the Stone._

"I don't believe so-"

"We need something better than that," Gibbon said while Hermione wondered what would happen if she took out her wand and cursed him. _I'd sooner curse Nott, the way he pretended to be James- how long was he there?_

"I'm afr- most of it was in French, written by Flamel himself," she excused, remembering that if she did curse either of them, she would be kicked out of-

Hermione nearly slapped herself.

"You've told us you can read it already," Gibbon pressed, losing patience.

"Well, not all of it was illegible- I know it was impossible to enchant and impossible to summon, but-"

"Is there any way of destroying it at all?" Nott asked.

"I'm sorry, can I use the lavatory?" she asked politely. "I'll be right back, it's just..." She winced and Gibbon nodded, probably seeing a chance to discuss things with Nott. In the upstairs toilet, she opened the window and cast three knockback jinxes before finally seeing an owl, which she placed into a full-body bind while it was in flight. She regarded the animal with a familiar curiosity as it fell before suddenly feeling awful. Caught between not wanting to arouse suspicion and not wanting to be caught in the crossfire when the magical law enforcement arrived, she tried to heave herself out the window and doubled over with pain as her foot hit the ward boundary. Lying on her back in an utterly normal washroom, she heard the knock on the door, which the dark wizards answered with spellfire.

From the sound of it, the whole affair was done in a matter of moments, the inexperienced Hit Wizard on the scene unprepared for the Death Eaters, as they were, who killed him before escaping, reinforcements only moments behind. Hermione was questioned extensively about what they wanted, where they were going, what they had said, until eventually most of them left her with the department head, who was deemed somewhat better with children.

"You're going back to Hogwarts, Miss Granger," Madam Bones concluded, having heard her protests out. "You can argue you're a target there, but you're a target here, and one harder to shield. A man died today." Hermione made a face asking how that was her fault. "If it had not been for that body-bind Nott cast while Polyjuiced to be your friend, we would not have known to be looking in the area."

When at last she got a question of her own in, she wasted it in retrospect.

"Wait, so the Trace responds to adults pretending-"

"Granger, if you're unlucky enough to be the thousandth person to ask me how the Trace works, I'll bind you to the Hogwarts Express myself."


	5. An Explanation for Ernie

The train was a strange mix of trepidation and ignorant disinterest, though Hannah Abbott was not boarding it without friends.

Susan Bones and she were still having difficulties, though Ernie earnestly wanted to remain friends with both of them. He seemed to think well of each of them, though the latter had been associating with Neville Longbottom, who had been associating with Draco Malfoy before being driven mad by Voldemort.

Hannah remembered that day, how little she had known about everything that was going on, and it no longer surprised her. She supposed people could just look the other way most of the time, seeing what they expected to see and nothing more. Her mother had always told her she had an active imagination, but the trouble with that was that she did not always dream up the correct conclusions. If she had seen Draco and Neville hanging out, she was more likely to conclude they were becoming friends despite their differences, not that there was a dark wizard within the school and they were working together to stop him, or that both of them were blood purists or sympathizers.

She took a compartment with Ernie and Susan and listened to what was going on in her summer patiently.

"My aunt says Dolores Umbridge made a bid for Supreme Undersecretary, which she might get soon. You remember Ebony- well, her real name is Enid Bagnold, and she submitted her name for the same position, and Umbridge wrote her a recommendation, but she's not getting the position if her old boss wants the same one. I guess she kind of lost out on that one, but the recommend might count for something."

Hannah decided there was a good chance her friend was interested in politics, which was well enough. It seemed like the Ministry was almost all Londoners, though it was probably only her imagination that there was something going on there. Wizards of the country appeared content enough with their arrangement, though they had little weight in government. She had always pictured the farmers whistling while using their crop-harvesting spells until hearing about a new regulation that offended them terribly, but was entirely incontrovertible.

"How was your summer?" Susan asked politely. It appeared things were at least civil between them, though she would have to contain her expectations.

"I went to Longbottom Manor a few times," she said after considering it for a moment, knowing that the boy in question had fallen out of favor with the rest of the House. "Neville's grandmother seemed so lonely and she would always tell me that he and I could have gotten along, since neither of us were completely functional in the head."

It appeared the other girl did not know whether or not to giggle. Hannah thought the comment was amusing enough in retrospect, if a touch disparaging. Ernie refrained from commenting.

"She said Neville was into painting," Hannah continued. "Did you know anything about that?"

"A bit," Susan started with a cocked head. "He was going on about how it was like a piece of someone still being around." Memories of the boy's seemingly inane ramblings were starting to jog in her mind, which she found a bit sentimental, even for her taste. "He kept asking about how human they were- like if they were real people or not."

"I remember plenty about that," Ernie said, a note of displeasure in his voice. "I mean, can you imagine wanting to talk to pictures? Like really carry on conversations with them? They're disembodied memories, what could possibly-" he stopped, responding to what was likely a change in Hannah's expression, though she was hardly keeping track of it, lost in thought as she was.

 _He has a painting of his parents at home._

All of a sudden everything made sense. Most of the older pure families had a marital portrait made, as a formality if nothing else. In the midst of war, they might not have had time to make one with their son, as they had separated themselves from him shortly after he was born. It was something she had learned from her lengthy conversations with the Longbottom matron.

Needing some time to process the information, she allowed Susan and Ernie to carry on an entirely different conversation about school, where the second years would be joining everyone else in the carriages that seemed to pull themselves through the air, which filled her with a strange sense of wonder, even as her mind was ever elsewhere.

She had every intention to do well in school and not to allow other things to distract her, but when an idea took hold of her ability to think, it would not leave until she had explored it.

The boy across from Hannah reminded her not to leave without grabbing her trunk, for which she thanked him over the mechanical screech of the train coming to a halt, breaking her concentration for a moment. She sighed, deciding she would have to know more before... deciding what she would even do with the information. Ernie would know the most about portraits, as the two of them seemed to talk about little else, but he was in a mood about the conversations. _Well, with Neville out of the way, maybe the Hufflepuffs will forget they didn't like him. Maybe after seeing him reduced to- what he is now, they will feel bad for him.  
_

The carriages looked Victorian, and she knew the castle had been around before that, so she decided it was possible students had other methods of reaching the castle. Hannah decided to ask Hermione, who seemed to know everything about the place.

As of yet, though, she had not seen her.

The students loaded into the vehicles with less bickering about seating arrangements than she had expected would take place. She ended up joining Justin, who was something of a kindred spirit in the uncertainty of a horseless carriage, though he remained on top of things.

"How do you do it?" she asked halfway there.

"What?"

"How do you keep from going mad after being exposed to all this?"

"I do my best to duck the dark curses," the boy said simply. "They had my name down for Eton, you know? I thought just about everything was certain. At this point I try not to let anything surprise me."

"No, how do you handle everything that's unknown?" Hannah asked, ignoring the slight against Neville.

"I figure whatever happens, I won't expect it. I used to have all these expectations, but now I don't have any idea what will happen," he responded.

"So what do you think will happen? What's Dumbledore going to do about You-Know-Who? What's he going to do about Dumbledore?"

Justin looked at her.

"I don't have any idea."

The carriage landed and a frustrated witch got out, taking her luggage back as Professor Vector escorted them to the castle. She caught sight of a similarly frustrated Hermione Granger appear with an Auror, whom she could pick out by the distinct red robes. _Portkeys work at Hogwarts?_

Her wonder did not end after the Ministry official brusquely dismissed the Ravenclaw girl, who caught sight of her in the crowd, but allowed Hannah to make her own way over.

"Who was that?"

"His name's Gawain. Can't remember his surname," Hermione responded curtly.

"Why did he have to bring you?"

"I would have been late otherwise. Auror investigations tend to take a while." Possibly deciding she was not going to get out of further questions, the other witch informed her she would explain everything later as they went in different directions in the Entrance Hall. Proceeding, Hannah found her House table beneath the enchanted ceiling of the Great Hall, dark like the night sky. She wondered if the enchantment meant to remind her of a time when wizards gathered in the open air for feasting, perhaps during the days of the druids. They were covered some in History of Magic, though she had a feeling she would only truly understand if she went on to Ancient Magicks.

"Hi, Hannah," Zacharias started as she arrived. He was a fellow second-year, and had an intention of trying out for the House Quidditch team, which Neville had encouraged.

"How have you been?" she asked as they listened to the Sorting Hat's song, the first-years filing in nervously. Apparently the old thinking cap just started singing whenever it felt like it, and no one could discern the exact purpose. She guessed it just liked singing.

"I've been well, working on a few Keeping saves. I really wish I had a proper pitch, and some mates who can heave a Quaffle."

"Oh, I see," she muttered, picturing it. The ceremony drowned out everything else that was going on, so she looked up as a boy named "Creevy" tentatively approached the odd artefact. _I would not be surprised if he's Muggle-raised at least._ When at last he put it on, the hat thought silently for a moment before shouting.

"SLYTHERIN!" The far table gave an appropriate celebration, as it was a point of pride to claim the first of the new batch, though they came in roughly evenly every time. As far as she knew, there had never been a year with a disproportionate amount of students in any particular House.

Watching the Sorting, she wondered how the hat made the decision every time, since she had worn it for only a moment before shouting 'Hufflepuff', which she supposed was fair, all things considered. It could not simply be random, nor could it guarantee evenness, since the hat seemed to consider for several minutes with a few students, meaning some thought was being put into it. She supposed it could be an elaborate ruse, and the Houses only existed to serve as a method for motivating students, and for that matter the Founders never existed at all, and simply served as mascots for the students, the ghosts being complicit in the whole thing. Of course, that would mean huge swaths of History of Magic would have had to have been made up, and the library would be full of false information, meaning one possible way of corroborating the story would be to look for a common publication date in the books mentioning the Founders.

Hannah shook her head again.

"It looks like she's the last one," Zacharias said as a red haired girl gingerly placed the hat on her head. "I'll bet you a sickle she's a Weasley."

The hat decided on Gryffindor without a moment's delay.

The feast was as excellent as she remembered, though a point that was missing could be found at the Head Table, where Dumbledore seemed to have taken a holiday, though the announcements would come all the same, with the Deputy Headmistress stepping seamlessly into the role of informing the first-years about the Forbidden Forest, though the Third Floor Corridor was left out, which she supposed meant they boarded it up.

"Did they ever tell you how someone got past the thing that was in there?" she asked the boy next to her, busy though he was with a leg of lamb.

"I'd rather not talk about it," he answered mysteriously. "It's been there longer than since last year; I think they had to get it everything together for it. One of the older students- well, the stories aren't for the faint of heart." Hannah decided it was considerate that he would rather not hear about what had happened to students, as she still remembered the Headmaster's warning from the previous year. It was the kind of thing that remained with you.

The Hufflepuffs old and new followed their Prefects out of the Great Hall to the Hufflepuff basement, where the first-years would be introduced as always. Hannah remembered it being a bit much, but she supposed they would know everyone sooner or later. It was a small populace of students, and there were those with their theories on the matter, but she was relatively sure the decline of blood purity had nothing to do with it. If anything, the wizarding population would have died out if it had not started marrying with muggles, whatever the security risk. She imagined that most Muggle spouses were like her mother, putting one foot in the magical world, while leaving one foot in the other. Mrs. Abbott made no discernible attempt to destroy magic by having given birth to her, Hannah was simply the daughter she loved as much as she would any other.

Entering the girls' dormitory, she found a bed with her name on it, scripted into the black frame with the yellow canopy drawn. It appeared she would be between Megan and Susan again, and this would probably follow her a good ways. The rooms were larger than the dormitories in other Houses, ans she guessed this was to promote friendship among students of different years, though Hermione told her otherwise. The Gryffindors and Ravenclaws lived in towers, meaning each room could only be so wide, as the castle was constructed before undetectable extension charms were invented, which she imagined would have made things easier, since they could have fit everything in a matchbox. That would make it easier to hide, of course, but it would be a real disaster if they lost it. If they left it lying around for even a moment, a rat could take it down a hole and no one would know.

Hannah paused while brushing her teeth, remembering that Hermione also told her at one point that it was a huge waste of time to imagine how things might have turned out differently.

Thinking more on the Ravenclaw, she decided she would ask about the questioning the Aurors had done, since she had been under the impression that the investigation of the previous year was over except for finding Voldemort, and she was also pretty sure that it was not one of her false impressions.

The following morning could not come soon enough.

Taking a walk down to breakfast, the apparent subject of conversation was the new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher, Gilderoy Lockhart. Megan's step might have had a pep in it, though she herself really knew nothing about the wizard. She had seen him briefly at the Head Table, and only swooned for a moment during the Sorting.

At the House table, it appeared an unusual amount of girls were sitting together at the ends of each table, with the boys on the other end, or wherever they pleased.

She passed by Ron Weasley, a friend of Neville's. Hannah remembered his going on at length about how clever the Gryffindor was.

"Do you have any idea what's going on here?" she asked, gesturing at the self-segregation.

"Oh, see that wizard over there?" he waved his left arm in the general direction of the Head table. "Do your best not to swoon."

She bit her lip.

"What does he do?" she asked, unsure of why he had been chosen as the new Defense teacher.

"Apart from the obvious?" Ron asked. Hannah nodded. "He's written loads of books about all his adventures. My brothers've agreed we're passing off copies. He claims he's fought hags and trolls and stuff- don't know why he took the job; it's not really a glamorous position. Charlie says it's cursed."

"Cursed how?" she asked as they sat down on a sparse area at the nearest table.

"Apparently no one stays in it very long. No matter what happens, we always have to get a new teacher. I hope he'll _at least_ be good at it _at least_ for a while."

The red haired wizard's contained expectations aside, Hannah decided to hope for the best, as her first class was one of his. She found the room quickly enough, noting that it was a double class with the Slytherins, who were quietly waiting for the professor to start. It was true that not all of them were devious plotters, but they seemed to follow a trend of knowing when to be quiet, if it was not her imagination.

"Good day, class, it appears my services are required- I imagine many of you are wondering just why I applied for this position when I could just as easily be slaying dragons and inventing new spells?"

"Indeed," a Slytherin boy muttered. Hannah could have sworn she saw a few smirks at the boy's remark, indicating a shared annoyance, though she knew sometimes she mistook random gestures as signs.

"As it just so happens that this is the site where You-Know-Who returned, I thought- well, surely they won't find another Defense teacher now! Who would want that responsibility?" He sighed, nearly audibly. "And yet, there must be someone who will shoulder it, and who better than I?" Stepping away from his podium, he made his way across the front of the room. "By the end of the year, each one of you will have some small margin of the greatness I possess- fear nothing, it's not a finite thing," he said with a jocular grin.

"As always, the first order of business will be introductions, but the bit of tested material on the curriculum will be defensive warding- something many of you may be able to use to great effect, someday." He strode over to where the Slytherins were mostly gathered. "After all, we are fortunate to have someone in this class who shares a mote of my knowledge on the subject already."

For the life of her, Hannah could not tell which student he meant, since there was no response from any of them.

"Draco Malfoy- would you join me up here?" he asked, a winning smile beaming.


	6. Battle of Charms

Draco liked to think he was not entirely a disappointment to his father.

 _The wards of Malfoy Manor are secret. We shall not reveal them._ Of course, it would not do to be so direct. Though he might have mistook this man for a great wizard a year ago, the summer of reading had given him a new perspective. He had read many books written by great wizards like Cantankerous Nott, Orion Black, and the translated works of his own ancestor Hydre, all of which his father considered perfectly essential for his development.

This wizard wrote nothing like they did.

He did not consider himself especially bookish, but the published works of Gilderoy Lockhart took him around an hour each before he stopped reading them, realizing he could predict most of the story. The man was an excellent _publicist_ , but really it was highly doubtful he was nearly as great of a wizard as he claimed.

All the same, it would not do to shame the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy by responding impolitely.

"Would you like to explain the astronomical significance of the Pisces spell form as I write the auspicious hours on the board?" he asked nonchalantly as he rose from his seat. "Or perhaps you would prefer the other way around?"

"I was merely suggesting that you provide an overview of the significant aspects of the warding, as of course the full retinue is beyond the scope of not only today, but the course," Lockhart reversed without missing a beat. "After all, I am the expert," he reminded the class with a grin. Draco raised an eyebrow.

"I had suspected you would be interested in discussing the effects, if nothing else." Arithmancy was time consuming and difficult for him, but it meant being stronger, more capable than he had been before. "If you recall the seven rules of planar curse structure, it would be none too much trouble for me to count to seven as you explain them, unless you would prefer the reverse." A chuckle escaped the mouth of a nearby student whose identity he could not discern without breaking eye contact, though he doubted it was a Hufflepuff. If he ever tasked one of their lot with warding a palisade, it would have to be a task that relied on repetition or something similar.

"A joker- you and I are going to get along famously, Mr. Malfoy," the older wizard interjected before resuming class.

His assignment required that he review one of the professor's books, which was of course intolerable. _Of course, I expect he would prefer that I refrain from exposing him._

At lunch he met Adrian Pucey, who had entirely different ideas.

"It's more or less obvious to all of us that he's a hack," he started, likely referring to his own year. "The trouble is, if any of us go around saying it, it means we're jealous." Draco made an annoyed expression. "You've heard of the Emperor's New Clothes?"

"I'm familiar with the parable." Essentially a pair of tricksters sold a monarch a set of 'invisible clothing' by telling him and everyone else that he who could not see his raiment must either be stupid or no good at his job. It was expected they were paid the agreed upon fee, but the story mentioned no more appropriate reward for their cleverness.

"If you mean to control this man, or even exert a small amount of influence over him, you will need to gain repute for yourself. Only then would a threat be credible," the older Slytherin explained. Draco remembered what Pucey had told him regarding where he stood with most of their House, though he suspected that had changed since the events of the year prior.

"I'm a decent flier. Should I try for Quidditch?"

"It's worth considering. It would make you a bit more popular, and I imagine a few of the witches your age would take an interest, but really it would mean spending less time on academics, which would decrement your authority. If you wait a month or so, I imagine the threat would carry more weight, because more of the students would see him as a hack, but what would you do that no one else could?" He paused. "If you succeed in threatening him, what do you mean to get out of it?"

It was a fair question.

"I only had the idea to shirk the reading," he answered honestly. "I suppose I could have him work for me in the future."

"It's not worth it," Pucey decided, shaking his head. "Rather than skipping the assignments and making the man your reputation manager, you would do well to read the books and learn from the best. I doubt no man's ever tried to discredit him before, and you might find you can still learn a fair bit, even if he is a fool."

"Such as?"

"If a fool can pass himself off as a great wizard, you can use his tricks to get out of the rut you dug for yourself," his mentor of sorts provided as he walked off. Pucey seemed to have a simple way of looking at things, a kind of commoner's wisdom not common in Slytherin, though he reminded himself that there were different sorts. Crabbe and Goyle were neither clever nor ambitious, though he was beginning to think they had a whole brain between the two of them, from their reports. Both had been practicing in earnest, going so far as to try learning a few new spells.

The strangest matter they brought before him was what to do about their former allies.

"The Granger girl is a mudblood, Goyle," he started simply. "At best she was an ally in a different time, when we knew not where our loyalties ought to lie, but if she will not join us, we shall have no further use for her. Weasley is a blood traitor with an ounce of cleverness and a pound of pluck. Their intentions were and likely continue to be counter to the aims of our fathers, and the safeguard of magic. The results of their actions speak for themselves."

It was not as if they had done nothing, it was simply that hardly anything changed. He had not done any better himself, but he had been unwittingly trying to beat the Dark Lord himself to the Philosopher's Stone, which was impossible after he pieced together how to get around Dumbledore's security measure.

One of the first-years, Creevey, seemed to be trying to tail him, which he suspected was something an older student was having the boy do. He had not heard of the Creevey name, and it stood to reason the first-year would have a ways to go in proving himself, or even being acknowledged. It was a rather sharp contrast to the image of his being appropriately cheered during the Sorting, but there it was. Draco decided to let him have his fun a while.

In Potions he was careful to keep up with his work, though it did not escape him that something seemed different about the instructor. He seemed to ignore the Gryffindors for the most part, rather than his usual criticism of their lack of refinement. There was an Indian witch among them who raised a hand during a lecture on reactive metals, but he ignored it entirely rather than waving it away. He seemed intent on getting through the material as quickly and effectively as possible. _Perhaps he means to show Lockhart how a real teacher does it._

It was not the first time the injustice of Dumbledore's refusal to allow Professor Snape to teach Defense irked him, truthfully it was not even the first time that day. It was intolerable, the idea that someone qualified, someone competent, was willfully refused at every opportunity- _better yet, someone who knows the real thing._ Snape had fought on both sides of the war and was an expert duelist, even with dark magic, something in which Draco was especially interested, despite all the warning he had been given. His father had been entirely unambiguous about the ancient magicks his family safeguarded, that they were to be used only to serve the future of magic.

"Draco, the world regards what we do as dark, and they do so for the ignorance we impose upon them," his father had said while drawing a circle in the floor of the basement with magically propelled chalk. "If they knew of our power, we would be weaker for their greater ability to counteract it. Still worse, the cleverer among them would piece together how the ancient magicks work well enough to use them." The intricate circle was complete, the chalk disappearing into thin air. "It is better to leave them to their whispers, while they whisper we know they still fear us."

"What about magic that really is dark?" he remembered asking.

"The world of dark magic is much like the infinite blackness that lies beyond the upper airs, the great and silent space between the planets and the stars that function as stakes in the chaotic void, anchors to our understanding of Astronomy. There is magic in the dark, powerful, mysterious; deadly. Consider the paths men take every day. The road to Gringotts from the Ministry's Diagon Alley Entrance is a well-worn path indeed. There are no secrets, there is nothing waiting that you would not expect. It will not fail to take you where you mean to go, if aught it will work more reliably with repeated use transforming it nearly into a straight line." The Lord Malfoy had finished placing the wards on different places in the circle, the invisible spell-forms changing the intricacies of the chalking. "Consider a road. There is a map for it if you require it, but that remains doubtful even without all the signs and landmarks between you and your destination. Like the path, it has been made straight, but by design exclusively, and even then conceding to natural obstacles and other roads."

"Those are less common spells?" Draco asked, following well enough. His father simply nodded.

"Beyond that you have trails. These have been traveled before, and are visible, but there are places where it is not clear where the trail ends and the wilds begin. It is not enough to simply look at the ground to know where the path leads; here a superior understanding of signs is required. Compare these to spells you need to find in books, which were rare or esoteric enough themselves."

"There are no trails with dark magic," he reasoned, helping his father now with the rack of potions.

"The blackness between worlds does not mind your footprints. Even if another has taken the way before you, even if you have, you must take it anew each time. Invisible forces lurk in the dark, your destination moves as you approach it, the world behind you leaves as you venture beyond its protective airs, where the very sun threatens to burn you alive if you do not first freeze."

The spell forms glowed brightly, visible now in all their complexity. He knew from the book lying open that it was a containment field for the mind arts, where those within the circle would be protected from all manners of external threat, and only the strongest in Legilimency among the occupants would be able to hear beyond. There were other distinct advantages besides.

Though Draco wanted nothing more, nothing that came to mind at any rate, than to stand in the center of a spell form of his own invention, his father had made it perfectly clear that he was ready for nothing of the sort. It irked him that he would have to learn more and simply become a more experienced wizard to use more complex and powerful magicks.

 _It isn't as if there's nothing else I need to study._

As he went on with his day, it was strange the way he saw mudbloods every where he went, like muggles in their part of London. It was not as if there were that many of them, but he knew for a fact that more existed than in his father's day, when the idea of being born of the nonmagical was simply a ludicrous notion that few believed. _Few reputable people, anyway. A handful of mudbloods who claim to really have muggle parents proves nothing more than the infidelity of their mothers._

The first explanation he had heard for mudbloods was that many of them were war orphans, but his mother felt it was time for him to know that there were wizards who would seduce muggle women and from time to time they would have children. The better families considered this a despicable practice that left magical children unaware of their magical heritage, and almost inevitably divorced parents. Lady Narcissa Malfoy did not need to tell him he was forbidden from doing such a thing.

Avery told him the wizarding world was dying out and if they succeeded in the next war, his own bastard children would thank him for his contribution.

Draco had little enough interest in the witches his age to consider the matter an immediate concern.

Getting to know more of his fellow Slytherins at lunch, he found he did not care for Millicent Bulstrode, whether Crabbe liked her or not was worth consideration only as far as it facilitated the occasional tease. He had no doubt both of his henchmen would marry eventually; it was the expectation with pure families, but he did not expect either of them to marry a witch with a good name. Crabbe's cousin was going to Durmstrang the following year, where Draco expected no one would have heard of his name and status, though he doubted the boy would fare better if he had the same amount of wits. The institute was quasi-military even in the present day, but that meant he would need a sharp mind all the more. Draco had been interested in the school after learning about the dark arts allegedly being taught there, but his parents would not hear of it more than once. He was too young to be more than a domestic Floo away, and they were more concerned about quality than selection when it came to courses, and Hogwarts was held to be a measurably better school. _It doesn't hurt that Father's one of the school governors, I imagine. Can't very well send his only son to a foreign school._

Out on the grounds, he decided he did not at all miss the indefinite detention he had previously shouldered from the decision of the impostor Deputy Headmistress. It continued to vex him that the decision was never reversed, but he suspected that it was never written down, meaning the real one quite possibly had no idea he was being punished. _I should have supposed putting me in the dungeons all day was something nice and out of the way._ He never made an attempt to reverse the punishment himself, as he had no way of knowing at any given point if the McGonagall before him was the real one or a former Death Eater, but more importantly asking to be let out meant lowering himself. He sighed as he stared at the September sky, laying out on his back.

"Afternoon, Draco." His head rotated to see a Ravenclaw, one of the Patil girls, though he only knew which by her robes. He remembered her being in his Defense class the previous year.

"Afternoon," he responded, not remembering her first name. It was indecorous to refer to a young lady by her surname, his mother had raised him better than that.

"Do you know about the Death Eaters attacking Hermione?"

"If she had been attacked by Death Eaters, she would not still be alive," he answered calmly, repositioning only slightly. "I had not heard." It was more or less the truth. The Granger girl really did not register with the Dark Lord in any meaningful way, and as such he had no reason to attack her. _He's also not a purist._

"She told us about it in the common area to get ahead of the questions," the witch said, sitting down next to him. "She says they're dark wizards- servants of Voldemort."

"And just what has that to do with me?" Draco answered without appearing interested, least of all in the girl's use of the name not to be spoken. Her eyebrow raised.

"You think no one knows about your family?"

"Tell me about yours." _Parents probably never lived under the Dark Lord._ "I'll tell you about mine."

"My parents are both magical, if that's what you're after," the Ravenclaw responded without missing a beat.

"Of course they are- or at least one of them was," he said, standing. "In my family as in all the great families of Britain, this is is what we believe." The castle loomed over them as the sun seemed to hide behind it. "Magic from magic- it is an inherited trait, the same as our eyes and skin, and we shall not give up on the truth even if the entire world disagrees with us." The witch turned to look at the setting sun, but the light in her eyes was a flash of interest.

"The Death Eaters killed people." _Sometimes the simplest arguments are the most effective._

"Entertain the notion that they were killing us. Dumbledore's faction, whatever their motives really are, would drive the wizards of this island to extinction before seeing reason and truth. From time to time a few deaths are necessary in a change of regime."

The Patil girl looked back at him once more before heading back to the castle.

"This is not the last you'll hear about this." She disappeared with a furl of her robes. Draco turned away with a bit of a smirk.

"I would hope as much."


	7. Ginny

"It's bad enough Mum told me to watch you, but hiding and disappearing only makes things worse."

"There's no need to watch me, Ronald," she returned, using his proper name to annoy him. "Do what you will, but leave me alone."

Ron would have liked nothing better than to do just that, but he knew better than to let her have her way.

"Then tell me if you see something," he muttered, compromising as she walked off. He imagined his father would say she was like their mother when she was a girl, but for the life of him he could not imagine how any of them had been born. Fred and George had told him essentially that it took two to tango, which he should have figured, as there was usually a father and he had to do something. His own father, however, had never once given him reason to be confused as to why he was necessary.

Going to his first few classes of the day, he found his wand worked a little better than the last one had, which made sense by Hermione's insight on wandlore, though he had not mentioned it to her. Charms with the Ravenclaws were expected to be quiet affairs and he found himself sitting apart from her that particular day.

Their first conversation of the year had been at breakfast that morning.

"Hi, Hermione."

"Ron." She sat down across from him. "How was summer?" she asked conversationally, some amount of annoyance in her voice. He had forgotten why she had arrived by portkey, though it probably had her in one of her moods again.

"Not really fun. I wasn't allowed to fly around, with You-Know-Who and the Death Eaters being back and all."

There it was. It was the unspoken reality that seemed govern the very stars, the new division of history after Anno Domini- Anno Domini Obscuri as his followers had fashioned it. _In the year of the Dark Lord- I'd like to have seen them tearing up their calendars when he died._

Hermione sighed, slumping forward.

"What?"

"I just can't for the life of me-" she started, setting her fork down. "-see why any of this is my fault."

"Well, it's not really your fault," he had responded, thinking about it. "It's not really anyone's fault, except maybe the Inspectors'. If they hadn't been in the way, I reckon Dumbledore could have helped."

"Wonderful- just tell that to everyone who's trying to get me more involved than I want to be," she breathed as she rose and left.

He spotted Dean presently staring at his work in the common room, his quill hardly moving where Ron had gone to study apart from Hermione, and by study he mostly meant to practice. He had most of the spells he learned the previous year mastered well enough, which was at least more entertaining than staring at books to learn about them. The trick was casting them silently, which would be faster and harder to block. He imagined Ginny would be more than capable of looking after herself sooner or later, but he was going to have to get stronger anyway. If Hermione was getting questioned about a Death Eater attack, no one was safe, not her, not him, and not Ginny.

As for Dean, though, he was uncertain.

From taking the occasional glance at his papers, Ron gathered the boy appeared to have taken an interest in Alchemy, and received high enough marks for all of his work, though there were multiple possible explanations. If he had died and come back to life, he had every expectation the teachers would be tossing him a few Quaffles to the center hoop every so often.

"Dean, did you die?" he asked, not quite sure what came over him.

"It's possible," the boy responded without seeming to consider the awkwardness of the question. Fortunately there was no one else in the room. "What did you expect?"

"I don't know. Seamus said you died."

"I might have, Ron. I don't know," Dean stated rather clearly, not appearing to have any other response. "What am I meant to say about it?"

"I'm not sure," he confessed.

"Neither am I," the other wizard muttered, exhaling. "I'd really rather be left alone about it, to be honest."

Tired of dead-ended conversation, Ron looked for the twins, who could reliably be found playing Exploding Snap in the courtyard. _At least I have some idea of what to expect from them. Well, I have an idea that it'll end up with a joke at my expense or some sort of prank._ Thinking on it a moment, he was still happy they had seemed to forgive him for enlisting them in a prank on Quirrell, but could only imagine what they had planned for him. He doubted it had anything to do with Unbreakable Vows, since they rarely reused material.

They were talking to a friend named Lee Jordan, the unashamedly biased commentator for the Hogwarts Quidditch Cup, who was telling them about developments in the professional circles. The three of them were smiling, laughing, even, though it appeared Jordan had to go.

"Watching us, Ronniekins?" Fred asked. "Not that I hold it against you."

"Always told ourselves we'd teach you how to have fun, we did," George explained.

"Might have been a time or two you helped the demonstration."

"But now we have something much better planned." Ron's expression changed. "You see, you've proven you want to play this game with us."

"We couldn't be happier, really. Even in these dark times, our youngest brother still wants to play with us."

"What are you suggesting?" he asked, cutting them off.

"Suppose we're no friends of the Inspections the Ministry seems keen to conduct."

"Comes off as a bit nosy to me, Fred."

"And suppose they're not exactly going to stop, especially not after there was a dark wizard here."

"Not that they found him."

Ron was aware his brothers had crossed paths with Ebony, as well as Alecto pretending to be McGonagall, whom they could discern rather reliably after they realized her punishments were lighter than those of the genuine article. _She's had long enough to know we can't be disciplined, George- Right you are, dear brother._ He knocked on the back of his head, hoping to jar their general speech pattern loose from wherever it was lodged.

"What are you suggesting?" he asked again.

"A little lesson in conversational strategy, Ronniekins- never repeat yourself."

"Anyway, what we're suggesting is that you take on a bit of an _extracurricular_ assignment."

"What exactly does this entail?"

"You see, we find the Polyjuice variant the Inspectors used to be a particularly great source of inspiration."

"So we redirected our creative energies and started work on a little something of our own." Fred revealed a candy box he had been concealing.

"Purely for academic purposes, of course."

"And in that same pursuit of wisdom, we would be quite honored to have our dear brother as a guinea pig."

"I suppose we could use Scabbers, George, since rats and guinea pigs are closely related animals."

"Perhaps, George, but not as closely as rats and Weasleys," Fred responded, just in time as ever.

"I'll do it," Ron said, deciding he was safer knowing it was something they would feed a rat.

"Excellent- you'll be tailing Ebony at the Ministry- treat her just like a zoo animal."

"Look and don't touch," George clarified with a wink. None of them had been to a magical zoo. All of a sudden the weight of what he was being asked to do caught up with him- he had never _really_ been to the Ministry, except on a few of his father's probably made-up work events that required the presence of a particular child.

"Why can't you do this?" he asked. "Don't you have a better idea of-"

"Ah, you flatter us, dear brother. And yet, we lead busy lives between the witches and the Quidditches. So be a good guinea pig and look into it."

"-if for no other reason than because it's better than the alternative."

Ron knew better than to ask what the alternative was, and he doubted that being busy was anything other than a poor excuse to goad him into investigating it, which would in turn only set them up for another joke. He wondered from time to time if the two of them planned out some of their better lines in advance. He shook his head as he walked off, having tacitly agreed to whatever it was they wanted. He was not any of his brothers, he knew that, but he was not happy with how obviously they ran circles around him with general competence.

Whatever other people said about how he should be happy with himself, he never found it to be worth anything. Especially after the previous year, he doubted anyone who might pose a threat to Ginny would care about how much older his brothers were, how carefree his boyhood could be, or how swell he thought he was. The chagrin of being compared to his brothers was not the sole factor driving his desire to improve, succeed, something, anything- _but as far as I'm concerned it's pushing me in the right direction._

He went back to doing his homework, staring intently at the text on the pages of his book without reading it for an inability to concentrate. _I really wish one time in ten the right motivation would just make this rubbish make sense._

 _Upon the signature of the International Statute of Secrecy in 1689, wizards went into hiding for good. It was natural, perhaps, that they formed their own small communities within a community. Many small villages and hamlets attracted several magical families, who banded together for mutual support and protection._

What confused him was that the passage went on to criticize the Malfoy family for opposing the ruling, in favor of war with the nonmagical, but then they turned around and supported it as soon as they realized they could gain power from the newly formed Ministry of Magic. He had no difficulty believing this out of them, but there remained the rather persistent question of whether or not they were able to do anything about the muggles. If the wizarding world, or noble families within it for that matter, were powerful enough to wage war on those without magic, what was the point of the Statute of Secrecy in the first place? _I could have sworn I didn't just miss it somewhere a few pages ago-_ He remembered, of course, the whimsical explanation parents generally gave their children about not wanting muggles darkening their doors at all hours asking for magical favors, but it seemed fanciful and he had thus far found no mention of it by Bathilda Bagshot. _How the bloody hell is this book organized?_

He imagined that if the Malfoys posed a threat to the muggle world, massive as it was, even at the time, they would already control their government or at least enough of it not to want to abandon it all for a seat on the Wizengamot. Secondly, it seemed this decision happened all at once, but he was having trouble finding any place where the wizards had to do mass obliviations of everyone who ever knew them, which he hoped would be explained later in the book.

Tossing it aside to clear his head, he tried a few silent jinxes while no one was looking, trying to figure out how Dumbledore could just cast spells without making a sound, but decided he was making little progress in that area. _What I need is someone who can actually help me._

He had fancifully considered asking Dumbledore, but he couldn't see the old wizard making time for him; kindly though he may be, Ron was a normal boy who happened to be in the wrong place a time or two. His father had made it clear to him that such was no excuse to stay out of things, but he doubted anyone would expect much of him, or even find any justifiable reason to teach him battle magic for the reason of protecting his sister, which was not at all in the scope of his duties by anyone's metric but his own. McGonagall had _some_ sort of obligation to help him as his Head of House, but she was also Deputy Headmistress, meaning she had plenty of other duties.

Getting on a broom for the first time since getting to school felt like a weight being lifted from his shoulders, though he supposed it was really lifted from his feet. _I'll fly around a tick and then I reckon I'll still have the time to at least get my History of Magic done- well, mostly done._ He imagined if he asked Hermione, she would say he had no real ambition to learn, only to get stronger, and that learning was really only a means to that end. _Lucky she's not around to hear me come to that conclusion. Last thing I want is her voice in my ear._

Careful to stay within the area where he had some idea the warding was, he was determined to clear his head and at least try and enjoy himself, pushing the broom as hard as he dared, allowing the scenery below him to play out in a blur of color. He felt the wind in his face as the greens and blues rushed below, racing in their mundane, familiar- a black line appeared at the edge of the wood, followed by a sudden flash of green, which forced him to climb, almost on instinct. The killing curse, unmistakable, flew below him as the caster disappeared, with him the irregularity in the scenery entirely.

"Bloody hell-" he muttered as he regained himself- his knuckles white on his borrowed broom. Turning to go back, he found his head was indeed clear of his previous thoughts; for the life of him he could not recall them. _Of course, what I have instead is wondering who-_

It was the Death Eaters.

It made perfect sense- their master had come back and with the Inspectors gone, they would start getting bolder with their moves on Hogwarts. All of a sudden the warding felt like more of a trap than a shield- a viewing window for the dark wizards to stare at them like a bizarre zoo exhibit. Fighting to retain control of his nerves and keep his expression from ruling his face, he put the broomstick in the appropriate closet before going up into the tower where he slept- where hopefully he would find Professor McGonagall. Whatever it was he saw, whatever it was he meant to do about it, there was no way things would be worse if she knew about it. It was getting on in the evening and sooner or later she would have to show up to send students to bed.

Finishing the history reading with nothing but the sheer determination to take even a fraction of his mind off what had just happened, he waited the rest of the time for the Transfiguration teacher to appear. When at last she did, he asked to speak with her privately and she led him to her office.

"You're as white as a ghost, Mister Weasley," she started. "I can tell this is no waste of my time." Ron had an inexplicable hope that Sir Nicholas was not listening.

"Professor, I was out flying- I saw someone in the trees- the edge of the Forest. Before I could think they sent a killing curse at me and disappeared," he stated as clearly as he could, nearly having rehearsed the whole thing. "They were Death Eaters."

McGonagall's expression had steadily darkened as he spoke, though the last comment brought her hands together, fingers interlocked.

"Mister Weasley, had you been close enough to identify your attacker or attackers as Death Eaters, you would not be here to tell me about them." She straightened. "They very well might have been former servants of Voldemort come back to do his bidding once more. All the same, that is something we do not know."

"I guess, but-"

"It is a very serious matter that your alleged attacker used a killing curse against you. What it suggests to me is that whatever he was doing was of such paramount secrecy that it was less suspicious for us to find your body than it would have been for you to return alive to tell about his presence. How do you know it was a killing curse?"

"It was green- it looked like one."

"Have you seen a killing curse before?"

"No, ma'am," he responded, thinking back to nearly every spell cast in his direction. It occurred to him that for some reason, Voldemort himself had only decided to stun him. _I guess he could have just been in a good mood._

"There are other charms and enchantments with green spellfire." She paused, changing direction somewhat. "I am not doubting that whoever attacked you meant to kill you- had you fallen from your broom you would have died. I am merely trying to establish exactly what happened."

"Well, after he cast it, they were gone. I think there was more than one of them."

After a few more questions, the Deputy Headmistress determined he knew nothing more than he had already said and sent him to bed, guiding him back as far as the common room as if she feared for his safety, in Hogwarts of all places. He tried the alternate explanation that she was only accompanying him to explain his defiance of curfew, but somehow the notion refused to land.

Meeting Seamus in the dormitory, he asked if he had seen Ginny pass through the commons on her way to bed, and he confirmed it. _I reckon I just might be able to sleep now. Well, I can try._


	8. The Magical School

Hermione's commitment to excellence never wavered, but she wondered about the tone of her essays. There were times when she might have had a friendlier idea toward the older wizarding families, perhaps an even sympathetic one for their being treated unfairly by normal people, but those were days gone by. Either way, she continued to receive O level marks, which gave her more satisfaction than before.

Something else she enjoyed was seeing Ron reading. He was not at fault for her having been brought back into the wizarding world, far from it, but the impression he gave was one of an unrepentant slacker, and it was a small joy amid the fear for her life.

On that subject, it appalled her the way wizards seemed to respond to the return of the dark wizard Voldemort. The _Prophet_ had not so much as mentioned it, and while the students had ostensibly been warned about him, she doubted the Slytherins had heard the exact same message from Professor Snape that she had heard from Professor Flitwick. She and Anthony were reading in the common room when he admonished them not to leave the castle or listen to adult wizards outside of the teachers, and even then it would be best not to leave the sight of other students. As a result, she and Anthony were almost constant companions, silent as they were when studying.

The boy was undeniably intelligent and capable, and when she asked if the Weasley twins had approached him with their little joke, he chuckled, revealing that he agreed to play into the stereotypes, but he really had been interested in finance the entire time.

"Of course, there was no reason to tell them that," he had related, eliciting a smile.

Oddly enough she would see Gregory Goyle in the library every now and then, mostly reading for coursework, but she supposed it was something. _There's nothing in here about the Philosopher's Stone, so he's out of luck if he's looking for that._ She resolved that as he had helped her and had been decent to Neville from what she could see, she would treat him with a casual respect and do her best to remember that not all Slytherins were the same.

Draco, for that matter, seemed to ignore her, and she had no problem at all with doing the same. What she had been reading in History of Magic seemed to decry his family, and she saw no reason to disbelieve it. Their son had done little to correct the idea that his family was willing to ally itself with dark wizards to expand its control of the wizarding world. Anthony told her he cared little for the family, from what he knew about them, which was well enough with her.

What irked her was that she could have sworn she had seen one of the first-year boys in his House before, but asking him about it would mean talking to him, and she was most certainly not talking to him.

Ravenclaw second-years had Charms with the Slytherins, and as a result she would cast the occasional look over, but she really had no idea who most of the boys were, least of all the first years or the long haired boy behind Draco with shaded spectacles. _Well, well, well, looks like it's about time for the wizarding world to fall in love with Lennon. It's perfectly logical, with how far behind they are in everything else._

Anthony seemed to enjoy competing with her up to a point, but was more focused than to allow that to get in the way of learning the technique for the anti-unlocking spell, the counter to the first-year unlocking charm. Not a true charm, _Sero Clostellum_ was a basic ward that would prevent a physical lock from being undone by the unlocking charm, _Alohamora_. Professor Flitwick assured them when they took ancient runes, the spell form of the ward would make more sense, but he believed it was a necessary spell for the privacy of the students, especially after learning that one in three could use the unlocking charm. Hermione nearly went red, but then she remembered that a fair few students would have been trying to get through the locked door before finding out that the beast was behind it, so she could not have been _entirely_ responsible for spreading the charm around.

She looked over at a pair of Slytherin girls, one whom she had met named Tracey, the other Millicent. From talking with them a handful of times last year, they could not have been more different, and yet there they were- the studious and outgoing girl and the girl whose birth certificate had to be referenced to be perfectly certain she was not a neanderthal. The pair of them appeared to be working through the charm, and though Hermione was trying not to stare, it seemed as if they were working well enough together. _That's perfectly mad- how do they manage it?_

After Charms she found herself at lunch with Hannah, whom another Hufflepuff named Ernie joined, making polite conversation. She had heard from Goyle that he was involved with Ebony's gang, though she thought better of simply asking about it. If it still existed, she wanted nothing to do with it, if for no other reason than that she did not enjoy being repeatedly blasted with fire and water as a mechanism of torture. _I can't just assume the whole House is like that, though-_

"Ernie, why did you help Ebony?" Hannah asked seemingly out of nowhere. _I might have caught it had I been paying attention-_

"It seemed like the normal, correct thing to do," he responded evenly. "All normal, well-adjusted Hufflepuffs were at least sympathetic to the society." _That hardly means you would be poorly-adjusted by refusing to join._

"The society? Why, what did it want? Were you trying to find dark wizards? Dragons?" Hermione mentally tallied the first guess as a reasonable one since Ebony had at least ostensibly been in the school looking for dark magic being practiced. The second was less reasonable.

"We were looking for dark magic, but I don't see why anyone has a problem with that," he started. "A good number of us were first years, but there were some of us who were older. Cedric said he was 'busy'. I find it hard to believe anyone could care so little." Hermione supposed the boy might have simply been looking for a credible excuse that did not explicitly oppose the society itself. She imagined that if some sort of faction arose in her House, she would really have no idea of what to make of it. Ravenclaws seemed to disagree with each other intellectually more often than not, which led Slytherins like Tracey to oppose the notion that they were really that intelligent, since one of them would have discovered the truth at some point before the present and made it law. Hermione had not seen the truth as something that could be determined for certain outside of mathematics.

"So what was Ebony having you do?"

"It wasn't only her idea," Ernie responded, somewhat more upset. "We agreed to look around for suspected dark wizards- yes, some of the older students had better ideas about how to go about things, but it wasn't as if Ebony were some sort of dictator."

"Ernie, that wasn't her real name. She was an Inspector named Enid something," Hannah objected. "So, really, she wasn't acting honestly-"

"I suppose your friend Ron was acting honestly when he ran from the authorities!" Ernie interrupted. "For that matter- Hermione researching dark magic in secret, I suppose _that_ -" he stopped suddenly, seeing her wand out, though she quickly put it away, annoyed at herself for nearly resorting to force.

"Ernie, there's no proof I was looking into dark magic. I was in the Restricted Section looking for information on the Philosopher's Stone."

"There's no proof of that. You didn't feel the need to ask anyone about-"

"No, I had no intention of telling the Inspectors what I was doing." Having been thoroughly interrogated on the spot by Ebony, she had since prepared responses for the questions she had already been asked as well as others along the same lines. Having been thoroughly interrogated by Death Eaters and imprisoned by their leader, she was beginning to develop sympathy for efforts to remove them, but she remained unimpressed with the opposition.

"Then you have a credible accusation of researching dark magic against you. Properly, you would be investigated while detained." Hermione raised an eyebrow at Ernie's decision, significantly less shocked than Hannah, who was looking back and forth at the two of them. Her head seemed to shake as if she were being asked if she wanted to keep dreaming this dream. In truth, Hermione was impressed he had the conviction to continue with the line of reasoning he had proposed rather than admitting defeat or calling for a compromise.

"I can prove I wasn't researching dark magic," she said, remembering something she had learned about it in passing. _Of course, there's no reason to tell him I read it in the Restricted Section while trying to figure out how the Inspectors were disguising themselves._

"Really? I should like to see that at your earliest convenience." Ernie responded, rising for a succeeding class. With one of her own to attend, she left the Great Hall as well, Hannah following her uncertainly.

"Hermione- you don't have to prove anything."

"This is the quickest way to get them off my back," she responded as she followed a student she recognized. "I don't mind their looking for dark wizards- and the sooner they're not looking into my case, the sooner they can get back to it." She said in a matter-of-fact way, having had it confirmed their society still existed. _In truth, I'm not entirely sure Ebony was the founder._

In Potions with the Hufflepuffs, she was careful not to let her wandering mind keep her from her usual excellence. Pouring the first half of a solution into a decanter as a boy from the other House nearly burned himself, she remembered Neville had told her that there was another among them, someone named Electrum. She had assumed he was the Prefect following Ebony to the Underground Chambers after noticing she was missing, but there was no way to know for sure.

 _Now I just have to prove that I wasn't reading about dark magic._

From what she knew, its use would gradually change the wielder, as by all indication it had changed Voldemort, who was something of an extreme case. From what little she had read, he had chalk-white skin and a serpentine appearance, but that was only what was on the surface. Beneath that, there were those who said he was mad, those who said he had killed the shred of decency you always thought the worst men had already lost, and there were those who said his personality was unmistakable for a man who thought clearly with no illusions at all. He knew exactly what he was doing, he knew exactly why he was doing it, and why he was right.

 _It's a wonder why_ those _books are in the Restricted Section._

As much as it annoyed her that knowledge was being sequestered in a library of all places, Hermione decided it was basically fair that the school be allowed to decide what to do with its own books. It was a sufficiently reasonable policy to allow students to check out specific books with a signed note from a teacher, it had simply been too great of a risk at the time. All the same, a clean bill of magical health should ensure that she had used no dark magic, which made it less credible that she had read anything about it or gone out in search of it.

Aware of Professor Snape's lecturing about how errors were more likely to result in a potion of no distinguishable effect than what was essentially a poison, but even that was more likely than producing a potion with a positive effect, she gathered that it would be reasonable to make a harmful brew of some sort and carry it around with her in the event that she needed to toss it on Death Eaters. Hermione had no idea how they were going to get into the school, but if Draco had managed to make a poison and get away with carrying it around, she would similarly have no problems. After all, the students were already carrying around deadly weapons and the most innocuous of potions could be altered to be fatal, given the frailty of human beings. If you mixed a pepper-up with a Shrinking Solution, the heart would shrink and death would be almost instantaneous, though that was one of the only directly intuitive results of which she knew. In most cases, as she suspected, mixing two completed potions would either result in nothing happening, a negative effect of uncertain properties, or a rare kind of 'oil and water' phenomenon in which both potions took effect at the same time.

She had already made another invisibility potion on the second or third day of school.

"Hi, Hermione." She looked and it was Hannah, who was asking for help with something. "I'm sorry, I just don't get this. Why do we need to cut the root with a steel knife?"

"Silver knives are highly reactive. Cutting the roots with a silver knife would cause a replacement reaction. The synthesis properties of the root would almost certainly cause a green bubbling on the surface that's meant to be blue now-" she looked over at Hannah's cauldron, which appeared to be both bubbling and green.

"Please continue."

"-Right, the bubbling solution will cause an irritation when it comes in contact with the skin." The liquid was nearly overflowing. "It's highly recommended you banish the contents of that cauldron."

"Okay, and suppose I don't know the banishing charm?" Hannah asked nervously. Hermione adopted a blank stare.

"Then I suppose you should learn it before Snape comes around," she suggested as quietly as she could.

"Is there another option?" the Hufflepuff asked even more quietly.

"Drink it." Hermione's eyes widened sharply, her expression without change.

Staring back and without asking what would happen, Hannah shoved a flask in the potion, raising it to her lips and downing it. By the third flask her eyes were rolling back in her head as Hermione was struggling not to watch her and keep her attention on her own work. It almost escaped her notice when the instructor appeared behind her, staring at the Hufflepuff, whose skin was bubbling.

"Miss Abbot, if I were to ask you, would you be able to tell me where your work is?" _He's toying with her._

Hannah was unable to respond, staring back with a look of terror.

"If I were to guess, I would say you have ingested it." He waved his wand, banishing the contents of the cauldron. "You will not receive any note for this assignment, though note that I am... _slightly_ disappointed. Do your best not to die of poisoning," he concluded before walking off.

"It's not fatal," Hermione whispered, wishing she knew how to banish potions.

As they left class, Hannah followed her, staying so close behind she could swear the girl was trying to trip herself.

"How do you do it?" she asked quietly.

"I find it's best to read the instructions before starting- Professor Snape assumes you know to do that. In addition, when it says to do something a specific way, there's probably a reason-"

"No, how do you just- stay on top of everything? How is it that you don't seem worried- preoccupied- with anything?" the other girl asked as they walked through the corridor, likely far from Hannah's next class. Hermione hoped no one else was paying attention. She did not know how to respond to crying.

"I'm not as special as that," she said, still glancing around. "I just... I don't want to be here, Hannah, not really. It's not because of you or anyone else, it's just that I was happy before all this happened to me and I feel like I've been forced into this- I don't know what, this new life." The other witch nodded, not having stopped her tears before setting off in another direction. Hermione wished she could have helped her, but if she had been asking for a way not to care about failing, there was truly no help she or anyone else could have provided, outside of addling her mind with drugs. Hermione had no interest in doing anything like that.

Forced to once again go over her reasoning for wanting to leave the wizarding world in her mind, she could not deny that it was safer at Hogwarts than it seemed- there had only been one student death in the last fifty years, and this time segment included the reign of Voldemort. Logically, she knew if there were dark wizards coming after her specifically, they would be better deterred by Hogwarts warding than anonymity.

Remembering the time she decided to leave, there was no doubt in her mind as at last she climbed into bed, listening to Padme in her sleep.

Hermione wanted nothing to do with a world that seemed to have gone mad.

Where things made sense, she could begin to rationalize hope. She had believed all her life that the progression of history was a positive one, and the trend would continue, as people continued to change the world around them and themselves. From what she had seen, she could believe it. Whether the magical world was acting in a useless, stubborn defiance, or whether it asserted the reality of man and the world, she would not accept it. The world she left would not leave her, and sooner or later she would have to stop running.

Rolling over in the dark, she at last fell asleep.


	9. Hannah the Hufflepuff

Being covered in what looked like boils was not her idea of fun.

Firstly, she did not know exactly what ailed her, only that it was bad enough that people did not recognize her. Hannah had hoped that it would be something of a silver lining, but the problem with that was she had to identify herself in classes to avoid being marked absent. Somehow it was worse to raise her hand than be recognized immediately, though she imagined that there were plenty of other students who knew who she was, only they thought it would funnier to remain quiet, letting her imagine their smirking and snickering. Lack of confidence and concentration seemed to be hurting her performance in the rest of her classes, but she could hardly figure out how she could possibly fix that. The looks she received from the other students were more than enough, and the problem seemed to build on itself. _It was bad enough failing the potion- why did I drink it?_ She was sure Hermione thought she would get away with it, or perhaps she had been joking in the first place, but even if she had been deliberately tricking her, Hannah knew she had been foolish to drink it. She imagined that another possible explanation would be that her suffering would amuse Professor Snape enough not to dock points from her.

She was not certain if the tears were forming around her eyes were the result of the potion, though she supposed it was possible. Hannah had not considered it, since she already knew plenty of reasons to be crying, even as she woke up the following morning and the effects of the potion remained. Deciding it was better to stay away from the mix of looks of pity and the occasional smirk, she eschewed breakfast and went to Defense class, sitting quietly in the back. Listening to Lockhart go on and on about his achievements and beaming smiles at everyone was a relief, since at least he ignored her. Perhaps he was being nice, refraining from drawing attention to her disfigurement, but she could think of other reasons.

Gilderoy Lockhart seemed to be a wizard who placed a great deal of value in his appearance; she could already envision him before the glass every morning with an assortment of Muggle products all while waving his wand over his hair. Her mother insisted she was not old enough to be putting on makeup, at least not as an everyday thing, which seemed reasonable enough. She was starting to take an interest in it herself, which only made her present predicament more painful. On her twelfth birthday, her mother had told her what she needed to know, mostly the less pleasant things she had not put together herself.

She knew enough to have decided that there was a good chance Professor Lockhart really was a nice wizard, but she wanted nothing at all to do with him. Getting out of his class at long last after attracting a few looks from the Slytherins, who seemed entirely unsympathetic, even deliberately unfair, depending on how she looked at it.

Deciding that she would get ahead on her assignments if talking to people was going to be a wash anyway, she worked in the dormitory where no one would see her except her fellow Hufflepuff girls, and not many of them during the day. Susan had been empathetic about her plight that morning, but without help to offer as she had essentially poisoned herself with an unknown potion. Reading for Transfiguration, she was doing her best to puzzle out the difference between enchanted objects and those that were transfigured, though it seemed they were functionally the same. Inanimate bodies could temporarily be transfigured into similar magical objects, but enchantments were spells cast on objects to grant them magical properties, but these enchantments would wear off over time, the classic example being invisibility cloaks. The theory suggested the longer, but still finite time component of enchantments related to the gradual change of all forms in the universe.

Hannah sighed. She could picture it, but there were times she wished the books would adopt Muggle terminology. Reading on, uninterested, she moved her quill absently with her other hand. Looking down, she noticed she had nearly written off the roll of parchment, and frowned a moment before deciding not to do it over.

Completing her work as night fell and with nothing to do, she decided to get an early start on the next day, hoping it would be better.

If the potion effects were less severe the following morning, she did not notice it, though she supposed she could be taking it for granted. As she avoided breakfast again, she imagined her life as a permanent freak, always reading and working without speaking to anyone. It was a dreary picture, but it was always better to get used to reality, as her mother would have it. There were times in the past where Hannah would take extended holidays from reality, shutting herself in her room and writing about her thoughts, filling up entire journals. It was a maddening mess where she slept, but really there was nothing for it. No amount of reality could get her to stop wondering, and no amount of paper would be enough to contain her wondering.

Taking to the library where she meant to consign herself when she had the opportunity, she decided to read about magical portraiture, seeing as it had been a topic of interest for Neville. Hannah hoped it would entertain her, since there were entire books on the subject. Over the edge of a book, she noticed Draco Malfoy, who appeared to be meeting an older Slytherin. Absent of hope that he would not taunt her or at least stare, she raised the book again and set back to reading.

Magical portraits fell decidedly into the category of enchantments, though the permanence pertained only to the enchantment itself, not the figure represented. Eventually the representation would forget all it had learned, and start over from the time it had been painted.

Across from her, she could hear the hawk-like Madam Pince intercept a student with long red hair about to escape with a book without checking it out.

"-and from the Restricted Section no less!" the librarian announced, likely more loudly than she had intended. A few of the students looked over with interest, some of them of her own House. _Of course they're interested. They're still keeping an eye out for the dark arts._ Hannah hoped that they would clear off from suspecting Hermione with someone new to investigate, but she imagined it would take more than that, since they were almost certain that she was guilty. She guessed that a few of them could be jealous of the Ravenclaw's achievement, but she reminded herself that it was not the only possible explanation. The student, not having violated any library rules before, was sent off with a warning.

As she was getting up to leave, she noticed the Malfoy heir was doing the same, and she decided to get out ahead of him, still having no wish to interact. The boy caught up to her despite her fast-walking, which frustrated her.

"Did you know Longbottom?" he asked unexpectedly as they left.

"Um, yeah, why?" she asked, not sure how else to respond.

"He mentioned you once. I thought you would be interested in something of his," he proposed. Looking around back of her, she did not notice the older student who had accompanied the Slytherin earlier. _Neville mentioned- well, of course he did. We were partners every so often in Herbology._

"What is it? The Remembrall he was always carrying around?" It had seemed entirely impossible to separate him from the magical trinket.

"No, the Healers couldn't get it out of his hand," Malfoy explained, likely having seen the boy as he was being taken to St Mungo's. If he had visited Neville, she did not know about it, and the staff had not mentioned any other visitors. "It's an unfinished painting. I might have taken it to his manor myself, but I could not be bothered over something so dull and I had edifying material to study."

"Well, that's nice of you," Hannah said. In truth, she was responding to his lack of comment on her appearance, though she supposed he could merely see her as a task to have out of the way. "Where is it?" The boy looked around a moment before telling her he would sooner have it brought where she wished than take her to it, which was fine by her. She wanted to be seen as little as he seemed to want to be seen with her. To simplify matters, she suggested bringing it to his side at St Mungo's, as the Ancient Egyptians believed having one's things around would be helpful in his situation.

Walking outside, she imagined that in their day, things would have been a great deal more difficult, without the modern convenience of spells already being hammered out over the centuries. Having to start essentially from nothing would have been almost unthinkable, but the cave paintings attested that it was possible for even the most primitive of tribes to work their own magicks.

The sky was a light grey, which was fitting as the weather started to cool. It frightened her though, since the older students said that if there was something bad that was going to happen, it was at least going to wait until the weather started cooling. She had heard about the magical significance of Halloween, but it was not quite time for that. _At least it's not going to be anything so bad as the troll._ Thinking about it made her shake her head, even though she had not been there to witness it. The thought of a troll breaching the school, whether alone or with help frightened her, and she had not known how to respond for weeks. The next series of events only challenged her more, especially as everything came in second hand.

She imagined a future in which nothing of interest happened the rest of the year, and as she would like nothing better, she kept going with the dream, looking further into the future of a perfect world. Years went by and other people kept taking care of things, foreseeing every problem and stopping it before it started. It was always the kind of thing that seemed obvious when you knew the answer already, but would stump you if you were not paying attention. She sighed, wondering against her better judgement what she would do in that kind of world, if nothing at all went wrong. Having time for things apart from worrying and dreaming of better days seemed an attractive prospect. _Of course, I'd still have this potion in my system._

Upset, she dropped to her back and stared up at the sky. The nicer ones among the teachers had asked her what was wrong, what had happened, if she was in a bad way, and her response was that Professor Snape seemed to think it was nothing serious. This response was met with a fair few pairs of pursed lips, since that only meant that she was not actively dying. Exhaling loudly, she took a moment to wonder why the man had a job, after everything else. In all her life she had never had a teacher as awful, and that was in the most favorable light possible. More vocal Gryffindors had parents who remembered the war well enough to know that he posed as a Death Eater, and while he may have been doing it for Dumbledore, he had done an _exceptionally_ good job pretending to work for Voldemort.

Hannah sighed, remembering Madam Pomfrey telling her there was nothing to be done about her 'current situation'.

A pair of Gryffindors came outside, older boys who were excitedly talking about the dueling club, happy that Professor Lockhart seemed to be taking point on it. Confused at first, she learned this would give them an opportunity to hit him with a spell by accident, which explained everything. For a moment she felt like taking it up herself, but she did not feel up to the exposure. Listening to them talk was welcome enough, though, since it was a moment of human contact, which she felt like she needed. Apparently there were a few second-years who did better than expected for their age, but were beaten rather soundly when the instructor suggested they go up against third and fourth years. As a demonstration, he had volunteered to go up against Professor Snape. Hearing this, she was momentarily stumped about which she favored. Hannah decided on Professor Lockhart, since at least he was nice and if nothing else he was handsome. She frowned when she heard he had been flattened inside of a minute. _At least it's apparent why Snape still has a job here._

Going inside, she ran into Ron Weasley in the corridor, a bruise on his face.

"What happened?" she asked, suddenly concerned as he kept walking.

"Let's say Crabbe likes to get in close," he muttered. "Still came off with the worst of it- managed to get him with a leg-locker. What happened to you?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Oh, I drank a potion to keep Snape from seeing I messed up. Pretty stupid, right?"

"Not really. That bastard probably enjoyed seeing your face get screwed up. Don't lose sleep over it- I never do." Ron walked with a sense of caution in his step.

"Is there something bothering you?" He looked back suddenly, then forward again.

"It's not your concern," he responded honestly, if unhelpfully. Hannah sighed. She did not care for it when people tried to pry into her business, and was willing to let him deal with things himself. At the same time, if he went on like this she would have to ask again.

"Is it something you would tell Neville?" she asked on a whim.

"Maybe. I told him things because he was already involved. Didn't tell my brothers, mind you." _Well, I wouldn't tell your brothers either._

"Well, what if I'm involved?" Hannah asked, annoyed to be left out again. "What if I know something about what happened with Hermione?" Ron looked back, brow furrowed. "Dark wizards attacked her- she told me herself."

"Why d'you reckon she-"

"They wanted to know about the Stone. We've all heard the stories about it."

"Well, it's not all it's cracked up to be," Ron muttered darkly, stopping in his tracks. "I got bits and pieces out of her about Flamel and his work before the end of the year. Way she talked, it sounded like she was all set for never seeing me again." Hannah looked at the floor for a moment. Hogwarts had fine masonry, though she was sure it had been hewn magically.

"Is that what's on your mind?" she started. "-is it Hermione?"

"A group of Death Eaters sent a killing curse in my direction," he began at length. "I don't know what they were doing, but they were probably outside the warding. I wasn't supposed to see them there." Not knowing how to react, she let him go on. "I've seen dark magic before, and I reckon I wouldn't miss not seeing it again."

"Did you tell anyone?"

"Yeah, but I don't know if it did any good. It hasn't worked in the past." The Hufflepuff suddenly pictured a boy a year younger than Ron, going around telling everyone who would listen, which was no one, about the dark wizard loose in the school, and then being criticized for not bringing it to the authorities. "I asked McGonagall today if there was anything you could do about a killing curse, and she said not really. She said she did not want to have to be telling me, but it's unblockable and there aren't any countercurses- if you see one, you do what I did and move." He snorted. "-said she could be certain I did the right thing because I lived to tell about it."

"So dark wizards use it all the time?"

"Yeah, basically. My dad says he had to fight them and it's all some of them seem to know. Seems there were Celtic wards or something that Lily Potter was studying, but he didn't hear from her after she and her husband disappeared, and then they both died. He didn't tell me everything. Probably didn't think it'd ever be useful."

"So is that why you went to the dueling club?" she asked. _I must simply be curious today._

"Not really. You should go if you want to learn, though. I guess I learned a few things, like keeping the other guy away if he outweighs you."

"Not bad advice," she said, nodding. The two of them stood there a moment, in some corridor on some level near the entrance, under an equally unimportant portrait of a pair of dancing skeletons. She imagined the worlds in which they lived converging, becoming one in the same. "I wonder what's going to happen now," she voiced to break the silence.

"Hell if I know," the Gryffindor muttered. "Be sure to tell me if you find out. Also, if you see a rat running around, can you give me a general area the next time you see me?" Not knowing why Ron wanted a rat, perhaps for more potion experiments for which Neville had always extolled his cleverness, she smiled and told him she would give it a leg locker to see if the curse tied up all four feet, or just the hind two. He found the idea of it funny as he walked away, which was a marked improvement over his expression when she found him.

She lacked a glass to see her face at the present, but she imagined it really was not that bad.


	10. The Deviant

Taking two of the new boys under his wing, Draco was having significantly more trouble with Harper than Creevey. The former had a sharp eye, which he attributed to blood, though he was having to remind the younger boy that it was not going to get him everywhere.

"It's total shite that we can't play Quidditch," Harper would complain. Draco ended up deciding not to try for a position, given the uninterrupted win record Slytherin had enjoyed. Winning would hardly distinguish him.

"There are more important things," he countered. "You need to read."

"Who the hell wants to read things?" he asked. "Why do we have to- there are those of inferior blood who can do that sort of thing for us."

"There are matters you need to understand for your magical heritage, Harper," Draco explained for what felt like the hundredth time. He wished there were someone else to teach the lout before him how to be a proper Slytherin, but he saw something of his former self in the young wizard. "This is something the blood traitors don't understand." The message seemed to get through to him, but Creevey was a different matter entirely. He seemed to be perpetually enthusiastic about learning more, but he had never once told Draco anything he had not told him first. He was beginning to suspect the boy was a war orphan, which would mean disaster for him if he were found out. There were those who believed mudbloods to actually have been born out of Muggle wombs, and were granted magic through a blood magic ritual. It was a decidedly sinister explanation of their origin, but not a terribly likely one. Really it was just a superstition that straggled into the modern age, rather like black cats, which carried no special magical properties.

Creevey carried around a Muggle camera every so often, which seemed to work for a while before the magic of Hogwarts fried the wiring, a common, ignorant complaint among the mudbloods with their trinkets. He replaced it with a proper magical camera, but the damage to his reputation had been done. Even with the wisdom Draco had managed to impart, the boy was seen as a Sorting error, a Slytherin with inferior blood. Pucey had warned him against sharing his father's explanation that mudbloods were actually war orphans, but he could hardly see another way of sparing the boy.

"Don't stick your neck out for the mudblood. There will be times to introduce the theory that will make you seem less like a blood traitor," The older wizard had said at lunch one day. "Why do you want to help him anyway?"

"We need to settle this. If Creevey is a mudblood, the hat is going against Slytherin's wishes."

"That's happened before. We call them mudsnakes," Pucey explained. "They're really rare, though. In terms of the wishes of the Great Slytherin, I think that went out with the half-bloods. Our own Head of House is a half-blood."

"Really?"

"They're the tolerable reality of our current situation. They'll still make magical children, if they ever get around to it." Pucey had expressed that the lack of children was not a symptom, but the cause itself.

"Professor Snape has more pressing work than raising a family," Draco argued. "I don't know of any Hogwarts teacher with children."

"Exactly," the older boy countered. "They're not living with the rest of us- I don't think most of them even have houses." He got up, having some place to be. "That's why it's so easy to maintain this narrative with them."

Doing his own work as always, Draco was having difficulty maintaining a neutral expression in the library as he was reading History of Magic. _At least it's not more Gilderoy Lockhart._ Reading his books had been the same bore he had expected, and becoming a master publicist was not as simple as reading mostly false stories. He imagined they might be interesting for someone who did not find them entirely transparent, but he had neglected to ask. He was grateful there was little reading for Potions, but really he knew the reason was because Professor Snape would rather not grade more work, and thus shifted the focus to experimentation.

Taking a break to go flying, he heard something almost indistinguishable in the silence of an otherwise empty corridor. Deciding it was merely a groan of the plumbing and nothing more, he almost did not notice as a rat scurried underfoot.

"Damnable state school..." he swore under his breath. His father had gone on at length about how more privatization would advance any learning institution, and it was easy enough to see why. Though the curriculum was up to the school governors and the leadership of the school itself, the costs were managed through taxation, which served to permit families like the Weasleys to attend, an idea that made his nose wrinkle with how completely counter-intuitive it was. Perhaps it was for the better that all magical children have a place to learn, but it only meant that further education was required to distinguish oneself from his peers.

Brooding on the inefficiencies of the Ministry, he ran into the Patil girl again, whose name he had since learned was Padma, though he might have heard it before.

"Hi, Draco. Where are you going?"

"Out, and you?"

"I mean to study for History of Magic. I find it quite fascinating." _Is this some manner of test?_

"I imagine it is, though mostly how they manage to string all the lies together. These are the same people who would have us take Lockhart's books as fact," he charmingly rejoined. "Tell me, do you believe it?" Padma inclined her head in his direction only slightly, an end of her lips twitching upward.

"Professor Lockhart is _most likely_ not telling the whole truth," she started. "You, however, are _most likely_ jealous." Draco found it easy to refrain from glowering as he had a response prepared.

"I find it hard to be jealous of a wizard whose lies are easily exposed by a second-year," he stated calmly, remembering his first Defense class. "Before long, the whole of Slytherin House will see him for the fraud he is, and all it will require is an occasional question."

"I suppose you would rather have a Death Eater?" she asked. They had talked before on the subject and he told her in no uncertain terms that while the Dark Lord was not to be trusted with the future of magical Britain, his followers were essentially right.

"Selwyn would make an excellent teacher of Battle Magic, though Avery would be better suited to lead the Dueling Club. Really, Padma, I don't see why you object, when we already have one Death Eater."

"Professor Snape is still one of you?" she asked, perhaps having suspected it. She sought confirmation, and Draco could hear it in her voice.

"Always. His contributions have been invaluable. I suspect Dumbledore believes he has a hold on him, but we know where his loyalties lie. Since he was in school Avery and Mulciber knew him for a purist, and without his former distractions, he's well and truly our man on the inside," he explained. Some of the Death Eaters had told him about the Potions master's distractions, but not what all of them were.

"You think you can get him past Dumbledore?" Padma asked, openly suspicious, almost tauntingly.

"Not if we had tried during the war, no. There would have been no way to plant him here as a Potions teacher. In those days, the old man was idealistic, but he was _thinking_. There were children at stake, which seems to be his weak point for some reason." His father's friends had numerous theories on why the Headmaster believed and behaved the way he did, but the Lord Malfoy told him that they could essentially be disregarded. None of the Death Eaters were sufficiently skilled at Legilimency to peruse the mind of the old warlock, even Selwyn's father could not have accomplished it. He deduced that they must have used the poor Muggle's substitute, which rarely matched with the information they ripped out of people's heads when necessary. It satisfied him to know that Dumbledore had a weakness, and it was one that could be exploited.

"I find this all very interesting, Draco, but perhaps you would be willing to talk of more provable matters," the Indian witch invited, handing him a book. "This is the cornerstone of the original research done into the phenomenon of witches and wizards being born of muggles." She raised it as he moved to snatch it. "And you'll find I've obstructed the author's name, lest you base your argument on credibility." The Slytherin openly smirked.

"Far be it from me to ignore the central point of an argument, but would you say credibility is _irrelevant_?" It was entirely possible that the book had been written by someone on Lockhart's level, even if completely unbiased.

"Treating it as if it is irrelevant will give you good practice with reading," the Ravenclaw jabbed, handing him the book at last.

"I'll thank you not to imply my opinion is not informed," he responded as he leafed through the table of contents. It was a newer book, as expected, since the fabrication of magical children being born of muggles was only popular after the war. "Of course, I mean to be no more informed by the time I refute this tome of lies."

"I look forward to it," Padma said sincerely as they went their separate ways. Thinking on it, he could not simply hand the task off to Creevey, as much as he would be honored with it, this was too important to leave to a first-year, and one from a family whose name he did not recognize. Worse yet, the boy might actually be influenced by it. It was possible Nott would help him, as the boy had a taste for books, and would likely at least be able to point him in the right direction. He resolved not to inform Pucey, as it was unlikely he see it as a worthwhile use of his time. _No matter. Making inroads is something we Malfoys happen to do splendidly without help, and making inroads with the other tolerable House is a matter worthy of my energies._

He had tossed around the idea of creating his own society of purists, or rather serving as an ambassador of sorts to Ravenclaw, where the ideology needed to spread to have any serious hope of taking root in the school. His own House was a complex divide of factions supporting the Dark Lord himself, the true purists backing the Death Eaters in secret, and more pragmatic schools of thought. It was clear to any who knew him that Pucey belonged to the third category, though his was quite possibly the largest at the moment, depending on how one counted the overlaps. There was also the complication of dishonesty, which had a way of distorting the Arithmancy.

Focusing on a more interesting matter than the book, his mind turned to the Dueling Club meeting, in which he liked to think he had a good showing, winning against an Irish boy from Gryffindor, but getting relegated to watching after he cast a few more spells than necessary. _I suppose it had been a while since I had a decent duel, though I would have hoped to face their best._

Dean Thomas had been a better than fair duelist, fighting fiercely and with impressive power for his age. He had volunteered to go up against a third-year, then a fourth, then Lockhart stepped in rather than allowing him to advance any further. Malfoy was almost certain the boy was a mudblood, and it irked him that such an obvious candidate for powerful magical lineage had been relegated to a Muggle family, when his potential could have been better explored with a proper upbringing.

A fireside chat with his father had revealed there was no word out of the Ministry regarding the attack on the Granger girl, primarily because the objective was impossible to obtain. The girl remembered too many of the questions for his liking, which Draco supposed meant it was easier to investigate Nott and Gibbon, who had been confident enough to use their real names, which was an object of concern. The plan had been to modify her memory after questioning her, but the interrogation had gone on longer than expected and the mudblood managed to escape. Fortunately, they had gone in with the expectation that their captive could escape, and asked the questions in such a way to make the exact purpose ambiguous, though the concern at the time had been muggles listening in. It was not known to most, but his father told him the Department of Mysteries had contacts in nonmagical intelligence. Masquerading as Russians or Americans, the Unspeakables accepted muggles to interrogate via a dead drop location, then returned them with modified memories and the information handwritten in a file. In exchange, the intelligence organizations would deliver reports from their technological surveillance systems. Draco and his father imagined Dumbledore's people would explain this away as 'building bridges' with the other world, but it was transparent that they were really only risking Secrecy for the sake of expanding the surveillance of their fellow wizards. It was likely enough that there had been Muggle cameras picking up parts of what they were doing, and possible that the Department would have found out, which would have been a disaster, even if they only knew a part of Nott's purpose behind his actions.

Draco audibly exhaled, walking without paying particular attention to where he was going. He had envisioned more dueling and interrogating, and a lot less stress in managing information loss and traitorous Departments threatening to expose the wizarding world. Being a Death Eater was meant to be an honor, though he supposed it still might be, and all honors were headaches. _At least I have a head to ache- the commoners would never be capable._

That the task fell to him was something he tried to resent only as far as was reasonable.

Nearly tripping over something, he hastily righted himself and looked around, seeing no one. The momentary shock of being seen like that having subsided, he exhaled sharply before turning to see a dead cat on the floor, its throat slit and its pupils yet contracted. For mere moments he pondered the horrifying possibility someone was capable of killing the Deputy Headmistress, a cat Animagus and getting away with it, but he quickly reminded himself there were other cats in the castle. Students rarely bothered to bring them after third year, since their homesickness was a bygone issue by that point, but there would always be a population of roaming cats that ostensibly belonged to students too busy to watch them. Moving, not wanting to be mistaken for the animal's killer in the event that it belonged to someone important, the seemingly random nature of the death continued to plague him all the way to the Slytherin Dungeon, where he would be establishing an alibi. There were no predators that killed animals for the sake of killing them, though a Red Cap might have slashed the throat to drain the blood for its hat.

 _Is this how all school years are going to start? A magical creature gets in the school somehow and I'm responsible for it? It's not even Halloween yet._

Reading the book while contemplating the injustice of it, the fact that he had classes the following morning barely registered, even below the text on the page he was trying to read. _Come on, old boy, you've been reading books all summer, one more couldn't hurt- please, just pretend to be engaged with it._

Montague walked in with Goyle what seemed like hours later, though Draco had not made a significant amount of progress reading. Managing not to burst out a declaration that he was nowhere near there at the time, which he would not have known, he responded calmly as they told him Filch was throwing a fit in their Head of House's general direction. _I suppose someone has to clean up the mess._

"Why does he suspect Professor Snape?" he asked, keeping his voice even. _You're not out of the woods yet._

"He discovered the corpse," Montague said simply. "It's not really that he suspects him, it's just near enough to the dungeons where he should know something." Draco nodded carefully. He supposed Filch had a reason to care who the culprit was, since he seemed to enjoy handing out punishments.

"Have you seen it?"

"No. I was in the area when they were talking about it," Goyle responded. "I doubt Dumbledore will make an announcement." In any other year, the seemingly random death of a cat would be worthy of note, but after last year the school was likely happy it was not worse.

"No, but it'll start the rumors up again," Draco realized, suddenly interested. "We need to throw in the idea that it was done with a knife. Goyle- get Crabbe, the sooner this spreads the better." Montague communicated that he was on it by leaving without saying a word. They knew the cat could have just as easily been killed with a cutter, but the idea of a knife as the murder weapon would at least _suggest_ that it was a mudblood. Further, by adding to the story the three of them would become an authority in the event that other animal deaths took place.

He returned to his book as the two of them left, Montague likely only going along with it to see what would happen. Draco found it much easier to read, absorbing the research well enough without having to look up. As the theories droned on, he smirked to himself. It was one thing to have the information, but another indeed to control it.


	11. A Rat on the Loose

Ron had taken to scanning the hallways more diligently the last few days.

It was not simply that Scabbers was missing, it was that he was very likely another target for whatever killed Filch's cat. Trying to be glad enough not to be a suspect himself, he ran into Hermione, but she had been interested in the cat's killer for the cat's sake. She viewed it as unfair that anyone could just shoot a cutter at a cat and the animal would be unable to do anything about it.

"Well, it's about the same as hitting a muggle with a memory charm," he said as they uselessly looked around the scene where the cat had been discovered. "I reckon that a cat in a magical school at least knows what's going on, though." His father was actually pretty good at memory charms, as a necessary part of his work. Collecting enchanted artefacts and turning them back to normal usually required a few obliviations.

"Either way, it's not acceptable. It's unfair to people with cats that they have to leave them at home because of this." Ron remembered he had a vested interest in having as many cats left home as possible.

"It isn't as if they have to. This is the only time this has happened, and it was a school cat," he countered. "D'you reckon this was an attack on Filch? There's a fair bit of people who don't like him."

"We still don't know. It could have been a random act of cruelty."

"There had to be a reason. It could have been a Red Cap, though. Hagrid says he knows absolutely nothing about Red Caps that may or may not live in the Forbidden Forest." Ron might have laughed, but the philosophy of the grounds keeper, gate keeper, keeper of keys was sufficiently familiar to him that it was no longer funny. He only wondered how far it would go. _I'll keep a count of the dangerous magical creatures. At least it'll be entertaining that way.  
_

"Well, whatever it was, we don't have its footprints," Hermione decided, waving her wand over the area. "If it came in from outside, we could use its footprints there, but we're too far away from any entrance to be sure."

"Probably other footprints too," he suggested. It had been a while since the animal had died, after all. There was no doubt the Ravenclaw was only looking into the cat's murder after all her assignments had been completed, though for him it was the opposite. Ron had been hoping a distraction would clear his head, though that was beginning to look like wishful thinking, since now he would have another mystery to occupy his mind. Worse yet, it was not one that would be easily unraveled.

Working on assignments was as tedious as ever.

The twins had already completed the strange concoction he would need to tail Ebony at the Ministry, which of course had taken the form of a sweet.

"Changing Mug Chewing Gum!" Fred had announced, delighted at the word play he and his double had decided on using.

"Consider it our best work, dear brother," George added, handing Ron a package with what looked to be ten or eleven pieces.

"Don't be in doubt, 'till the flavor runs out," Fred explained, still working on the marketing angle. Ron reckoned that it made sense to give the customers the rhyming, one sentence version of the explanation.

"Have either of you seen Scabbers?" he asked, looking over the candy. Between the rat and Ginny, he could not be sure which was harder to keep, as both seemed intent on appearing only when they meant to.

"Am I your rat's keeper?" George asked. "I wouldn't mind being its Beater; always seemed a nosy old rodent."

"It didn't quite know how not to stick its nose where it didn't belong." Ron decided that had they seen Scabbers; they would have at least hinted at it.

Testing out the gum in front of them, they were satisfied with the effects. Fred conjured a mirror to teach him to recognize his own appearance, which was a man he had never seen him before. Apparently the wizard's name was Pius Thicknesse, a functionary in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement a few rungs below Amelia Bones. With the right pretext, he could easily follow an employee into the Department of Mysteries, provided he learned the man's character well enough. He was apparently conservative in speech, which was good, but there were enough people who knew him and where he was meant to be that they had considered 'putting him out of the way', whatever that meant. Knowing his brothers, it would be a trip to Nigeria where he would be to meet the royal family, only to have them drop him into quicksand.

He would be in no danger, as it would be the simplest matter to Apparate out, but Fred and George would take sufficient satisfaction with the knowledge that he would have to go home to change his trousers before returning to the Ministry.

"I can't keep pretending to be this bloke, sooner or later-"

"Not to worry, Ron the Rat Keeper. Each piece has a different disguise."

"We think you'll do well with the witches."

"Wonderful," he muttered. There was really no point trying to outdo them in cleverness. "I take it you've tested each disguise?"

"More than enough, and quite a few extra. One of the Hufflepuff Chasers stole a hairbrush from Ebony's bed for us." Ron had heard about the basic properties of the potion from Hermione, though he was not sure he could brew it himself, even with the ingredients. It occurred to him that the twins might have found the old Prefect's entire stash of Polyjuice Potion, if she had any. It was his understanding that maintaining a disguise over the course of years was difficult, even with a long-lasting variant of the potion, because she would have needed to be ageing anyway. He decided it was more likely she had a youthful look about her.

His only question was how they had it good with the Hufflepuff Quidditch team.

Classes the following day were mostly straightforward, or he thought as much, since he was having trouble keeping his mind in one place. Scabbers had returned, and he had taken to carrying the rat around again out of the hope he would be less prone to wander, which he did a lot for a twelve year old rat. Bill theorized he lived a long time because of the spell forms of Hogwarts, though it was only a conjecture based on how Filch's cat seemed to be immortal. Apparently, she had been just as watchful during his eldest brother's time at Hogwarts, and even Hagrid disliked her prying eyes. _Well, I reckon he wouldn't like prying eyes even if they were only around yesterday. It's also possible he's just been replacing her.  
_

Staring out the window of Gryffindor tower as Charms ended, he caught sight of Ginny flying around on a broom. _Can't blame her._

Scabbers squeaked at him as he took a trip down to the dungeons, scurrying inside his school bag.

" 's not like I like Snape any more 'n you do," he chided, wondering why the rat hid all of a sudden before deciding it hardly mattered; there were larger concerns. Stealing a broken glass phial off the floor, he resolved to learn the repair charm. Going to school with a wide variety of students had helped him realize there were quite a few who did not share his poor man's tendency to use whatever was on hand. He decided Hermione would deplore such wastefulness of educational material, but as long as he picked it up, she would have no reason to be mad that he could imagine, which left only the ones that she could imagine. Potions with the Slytherins was a dreadful experience as always, but the rodent in his bag was quiet. _I reckon it's possible whatever killed Filch's cat might be somewhere around here._ Snape was not above suspicion of course, but the animal was only missing some blood upon inspection, and he could think of no potions calling for normal cat blood.

Remembering he was in a room full of Slytherins as he tossed a few live beetles into the brew, he concluded there was no reason to suspect the Head of House specifically. It was likely enough that he was merely covering for the real killer, as it made more sense for a teenager to have killed a cat at random. He completed the potion and as some kind of sideways insult, the instructor pronounced his work 'adequate' without further comment, but only after telling Dean to 'restrain himself' whatever that meant. _He's still looking for things to criticize._

A blood curling shriek from the corridor jerked his head around almost immediately. He rose, bringing Seamus and another boy up after him as if they had been waiting for a cue. All of a sudden, their feet were bound together. _A leg locker- where-_

"There will be no need for impulsive leaping," Snape muttered as he moved past them, slinking like a cat with his nose jutted forward, wand just visible out of his sleeve. "-a pity this happened during Gryffindor's hour." Craning his neck toward the door, he could barely hear what was going on, though it seemed Malfoy had a good viewing angle, obediently remaining in his seat though he was. _Lucky prat-_

From what he could hear, there was a crowd gathering, though the students in the Potions classroom knew better than to move, even if their work was finished. _Crabbe or Goyle had better tell me what was going on when we get out of here._ The hushed voices of teachers demanded that students stand back. He could make out the sound of Snape using a healing spell, a long incantation. When at long last Parvati whispered a ' _Finite_ ' for Seamus and then Ron, probably so they would not have to say they did it themselves, he noticed the other boy was a Slytherin he did not particularly recognize. He had an unremarkable appearance, dark skin and a close shave round the head. Making his way out after the rest of the students who were willing to brave the likelihood of punishment, which included the Slytherin, though his chances were better, the students had mostly dispersed as ordered. The Headmaster had made an appearance, however.

"Severus, you were here first. Please tell us how this happened."

"I was not here first. A Hufflepuff witch was running away, screaming. By the yellow trim on the victim's robes, I would hazard that she recognized the boy." Snape did not sneer, but he made it clear enough through his voice what he thought of the first witness. "I discovered the victim with a slash on his throat. The wound was too deep to staunch the bleeding with a battle medic's charm."

"What did you do, Severus?" Ron's head turned to see Professor Sprout, whom he reckoned the girl went to get. She was breathing heavily, though he suspected another reason for the horse sound of her voice.

"I did what was necessary," he nearly spat as he swiveled around to her. Dumbledore raised a hand.

"It will do us no good to squabble while the attacker remains at large." His wand arm moved about in a seemingly random manner.

"Have the Inspectors returned, Albus?" the Herbology teacher asked more quietly, seeing the students.

"It is the Dark Lord," Snape argued, his voice resolute. "What we need to know is why he needs blood." The idea gave Ron pause. It was something that both scenes had in common. He had heard whispers about blood magic before, but the teachers did not bring it up around the students.

"I fear we do not yet know," the Headmaster contended. "If these events are related, whoever is responsible does not care for the lives of students. In times like these, we must stay close together."

The Gryffindor boy looking on did not know what he expected, but it was more spectacular. It simply _did_ more. It reassured them. For some reason, Snape nodded and walked off, apparently forgetting about whoever was in his class.

Taking his things and leaving, he decided that the victim had probably already been taken to the hospital wing, where he was certain that no visitors would be allowed, despite how everyone would want to know what had happened. There were other classes to attend, but he reckoned the next teacher would be more or less fine with his being late upon finding out the reason. He momentarily wondered how quickly the rumors would circulate through the castle, especially with everyone who seemed to be encouraging them. He had it out of Crabbe that the cat's killer had almost certainly used a knife.

As always, Hermione was on top of things.

"Have you heard anything regarding the witness?" she asked after he finished telling her the story.

"Not entirely sure who she was- Snape only said she was a Hufflepuff." ' _Least he implied it._

"Hannah will know sooner or later. I can ask her in Potions," the Ravenclaw volunteered. Ron doubted she was the witness herself, though he had never heard her scream like that. Somehow he was under the impression she would have tried to do something. "It's possible the killer frequents the dungeons more than the rest of the school."

"Could be a Slytherin," he suggested, shrugging as she glowered at him.

"We're not going around making random accusations."

"We're not. We're not at all," he agreed. "It's not exactly a _random_ accusation." Hermione exhaled roughly, either not willing or able to explain why he should not suspect the Slytherins due to their proximity. _Snape would be covering for them. Even if he's handling it, there's no way he'd want anyone else to know about it._ Thinking on it more as he tried to unravel the motives of the Potions professor, he realized he was getting nowhere with it about the same time Hermione started making minuscule cracks in the floor with _Confring_ o, a sparkling explosive curse he fancied.

"In case you're wondering, I do know this spell."

"That's just great, Hermione, what are you doing with it?" He had ruled out the possibility she was trying to do permanent damage. She had apparently made a series of cracks across the breadth of the corridor. He wondered if she had a glamour to cover it up.

"If the killer passes through here, the tiling will depress imperceptibly," she explained. "I can most likely use the footprint tracking spell from there."

"That's like a hundred people a day- how do you mean to sort them all out?"

"It's as good of a place to put it as any. If the killer avoided the scene of the crime the first time, he would have avoided it the second time. I don't need the footprints to lead me to someone, I need the footprints to lead me somewhere the killer would have gone to store the blood. Then we know we have the right set." As she spoke Ron decided she was most likely using the word 'killer' in reference to the cat rather than the Hufflepuff boy, who had survived. _Thanks to Snape-_ his grudging acknowledgements notwithstanding, Ron knew he was not helping find the suspect.

"Hermione, when I'm saying it could be a Slytherin, I'm only saying there's a better chance of it than any of the others," he explained. "There are some of them who are fine," he admitted, remembering the conversation with Hagrid. "It's just that there's not a dark wizard who hasn't come out of there."

"We can't assume it's a Slytherin, as that will color our future assumptions," Hermione responded reasonably. She had heard his case. "See if you can find anyone who saw something," she suggested as he remembered Goyle might know more.

"All right."

They parted, having different places to go to bed. It was then that he remembered having closed out the year by sleeping in the Restricted Section, listening to the witch's soft breathing as she slept, probably having had more practice. All the same, her eyes would be red around the edges come morning.

Ron supposed they could be somewhat safer than they had been with the Inspection finally over, but there would always be other threats, like rouge Inspectors or Death Eaters, or something he had not predicted. He did not know how to think up things he had not predicted, but he would be somewhat safe sleeping in the same room as Seamus and Dean. Though neither was as well-read as Hermione, they were spirited fighters and would be of help if something happened. Reaching the tower at last, he sighed, realizing there were those who might be thinking the same thing about him, that he would help if needed. _I can't rest because I'm among friends unless no one's really resting._ Walking through the room with the same crimson and gold decoration as ever, he spied a stack of letters sitting on a couch, his watchful eyes more active than usual as if they knew he was about to foolishly close them.

With no intention of even looking at someone's mail, he made his way up the stairs, leaving his schoolbag open for Scabbers to exit whenever he pleased. He knew of only one reason for certain as to why he had returned to Gryffindor Tower, and it was because he was putting himself closer to Ginny, in the unlikely event someone came after her. Perhaps there were things that could have happened where he would not be forced to be concerned for her, but he could not think of them. At the end of the day, he knew little of the world outside his small circle of it.

He knew one thing well enough, though. The world was not safe.


	12. Haunting Halloween

Hermione had thus far been unable to find anything by using the tracking spell on the corridor, but it was too soon to give up hope. She had not checked enough times to be sure the killer had passed by the 'choke point' as Ron called it. It had not been long since she had set the trap, but the young Ravenclaw had expected results somewhat sooner, where what she found was a jumble of footprints going every direction. That established, it would be a productive day in Defense before she acquiesced to his suggestion of putting it in front of the entrance to Slytherin Dungeon.

It was a chilly October night when she tracked a certain pair of footprints to the main staircase, screaming. The footprints seemed to lead in an odd way, as if in a limp. It was possible the Hufflepuff boy had injured the killer, and she decided to follow them. No one seemed to notice her as she worked, which made sense, as barely anyone frequented the dungeons. What made her scream was the blood dripping from the wall.

 _"ENEMIES OF THE HEIR, BEWARE. THE CHAMBER OF SECRETS IS OPEN ONCE MORE."_ The words were as clear as day, spanning multiple paintings, each darkened to hide the familiar faces of the portraits. Her mind struggling to make sense of the message, she backed away to run into Professor Flitwick.

"Dear me, child- what have you done?" his face was white as her head whipped around to see him.

"Please, sir, I didn't do this- I just found it like it is now," she gestured down at the glowing footprints on the floor. "I've been t-tracking the killer, see- he went on that way, we have to follow-"

"An impressive bit of magic, to be sure, but there are questions to be answered," he insisted. _He must have followed the footprints to find me here- of course he has an interest in Charms. How could I be so stupid?_ "What do you know of the Heir of Slytherin?"

"Nothing!" she lied quickly. She had read a small amount that mentioned the Heir, but there was no need to communicate that. Some part of her mind kicked her for lying, though she reminded herself that she was putting the narrative closer to the truth. Of course, she would never have been there, given her way.

"What do you know of the Chamber of Secrets?"

"It isn't real, sir," she answered, half-truthfully. She had read everything from official documents to idle speculation, but even going off memory and even with the new evidence before her, it was something she was not going to tolerate believing. At the same time, she could not truthfully say she knew for a fact that it was not real.

"How is it that you do not know the Chamber is not real if you have not heard of the Heir?"

"I- merely heard about it in passing, Professor. The older students said no one has ever seen it." For a moment Hermione wondered if her teacher and Head of House was testing her innocence or her ability to reason things out. Behind her she heard footsteps, and a crowd of students leaving the Halloween feast late looked on in shock at the message on the wall. The half-goblin teacher quieted their questions and objections.

"Hermione, I do not believe you are responsible for this. The evidence before us does not raise the probability that you are guilty of any crime by a significant degree, and more suspicious candidates exist. You understand why I cannot immediately eliminate the possibility of your guilt, and you understand that I needed to positively identify you in the unlikely event that you were an Inspector." The witch simply nodded. "I ask that you visit me in my office tomorrow."

She followed him as he left the scene in hopes that it would look like they found it together, having already informed the Headmaster. Though Hermione looked closely, she was unable to tell when and how exactly the Charms teacher had contacted him, but she did not ask. There were other things weighing on her mind.

The most likely scenario that she could evaluate held that the Chamber of Secrets was not a real place, but an idea. It did not have to be real to scare people, and it already seemed to be working. Emboldened by the return of Voldemort, his supporters would logically be trying to intimidate the opposition by painting the walls where their children went to school. It was difficult to remind herself that she lacked a dog in the fight. One way or another, she would leave the wizarding world- the only mistake she made the last time was returning home, where anyone could find her. America would be far enough, possibly Australia, but she doubted any magical means would help her lose pursuers for long. She was more likely to disappear by having a false name in the telephone directory than by using an elaborate ward system.

As for them, one way or another the situation would be resolved. It would be arrogant to think her participation was necessary. As annoyed as she was to learn that class extremists still essentially made the rules through threat of violence, the normal world had gotten over that problem, and before long the trend would take the same form for the magical world. Under better circumstances she might have helped, but it seemed impossible to get anywhere with the native population. They hardly seemed ready to take her advice on acceptable ways of treating people.

It was for these and other reasons that the insistence of some in going after the Slytherins on suspicion irked her, since the notion presupposed that it would _have an effect_. To throw one of them in the wizarding prison, they would have to toss out the presumption of innocence, and one arrest would hardly stop the blood purists, if they were indeed involved. There was sufficient reason to suspect blood purism as a motive, but the attack might have been staged by the very same people who would then use it against the Slytherins, most of them children. Ultimately, they were just going to have to find better ways of living together, or come round to believing the same things in general.

The following day was more or less a blur until she met with her Head of House. She had spoken to Hannah, which had been helpful, but the rest of her day, even her classes, were much harder to remember, and it seemed a waste to sit down and think about them once she was done with her assignments. Walking to Professor Flitwick's office, she wondered how wizards seemed to be so carefree about the misuse of magic, or if they did care, how they could stomach living in such an unsafe world. She grudgingly accepted that if the parents of Hogwarts students were geographically closer to their children, perhaps they would be of use if someone tried to storm the castle, but that would only put a few of the Death Eaters closer as well.

"Come in, come in," the Charms teacher called endearingly.

"Good afternoon, Professor. What was it that-" she trailed off as she noticed he was looking at several books at once, waving his wand.

"Oh, pay no attention, dear girl, it's only a new spell. I find spellcraft to be fascinating in general, but this is a rather mundane one I mean to use to charm books into turning their own pages. Professor McGonagall, you know her, she's working on-" he stopped himself, realizing he was doing a better job distracting her. "Hermione, what is it that upsets you?"

 _Where do I begin?_

"Please, sir, I only wish to avoid being incriminated for no reason," she started. "I wanted to find out who killed the cat and-"

"Have you found where those footprints were going?" he asked all of a sudden. A creative and honest soul, he seemed to just immediately say whatever came to mind. It did not escape her notice that in class he rarely stood on ceremony when a student had a question to ask.

"No, Professor. I have avoided those areas to, well, counteract some of the attention I got." She hoped he would not hold it against her, since she was still actively suspected of using dark magic.

"So you were not that concerned with finding the killer?"

"Well, no, it's only that I don't want to be suspected of anything."

"Did you not know you would be suspected of something when you started investigating?" the teacher asked. "I would have thought you to have already made peace with the idea. As you are not one of the learned investigators, most wizards would assume you had some other reason for being at the scene of the crime." The color drained from Hermione's face until it was about as white as the hair of the wizard opposite. _Did he take me here to interrogate me?_

"I- well, sir, I imagined that it would be likely, but it's different when people already suspect you because they've already seen you-"

"Do they not already suspect you?"

"Yes, well, they do, Professor, but for something different. They think I know dark magic, but I'm not the Heir of Slytherin. He would never have accepted someone like me." She was grateful he allowed her to finish that one, since she had thought up a reason she could not possibly be the Heir in the time since finding the message.

"Ah, but what other suspects do they have? Would they not think that Slytherin's heir would be using dark magic?" The wizard's high voice was one of a trained logician, rather like Socrates.

"They would suspect a Slytherin first," she answered, nearly biting her own tongue to stop it from speaking. "Now that they've seen me at the scene, though-"

"Professor Snape saw a Hufflepuff girl where he found the last victim. Yet no one suspects young Leanne Laughland. Do you know her? She's about your age."

"Well... no one suspects her because she ran away screaming." Though she did not personally know the girl, Hannah had given an account of her character as 'an honest girl, though not so bright as you'.

"And why did you not scream?" he asked, his tone revealing that he had reached the true central point of his questioning. It was the same as his opening question, which ran through her mind again. _Hermione, what is it that upsets you?_

"Had I screamed, I would have given away my position." As the teacher was not stopping her, the witch continued. "If there's a killer on the loose, that's something I can't afford. I was about to run for it, but well... you were there." she stated awkwardly. "If I screamed and ran... where would I go? The whole world seems a violent mess." Hermione looked up, seeing the old wizard's pensive expression and wondering if she had offended him. "Sorry, sir."

"You have no need to apologize, dear girl. Be it known that Hogwarts has always been a safe place, that the teachers have always been able to handle whatever threatened the lives of students. Though war has returned to the wizarding world, we have fought before and not a single Hogwarts student died in the long, bloody years of the war. The last time a student died was fifty years ago; I was a much younger-"

"Fifty years ago?" she asked in open disbelief.

"Ah, yes, young Myrtle Warren, I'm told she still floats around her old toilet- died when, dear me- the Chamber of Secrets opened the last time." He waved his wand, the books on his desk doing an odd sort of dance before sorting themselves, holding his place in each. "I don't mean to upset you, not after you were in such a state when you came in, but the Chamber is very real, and likely the Heir is real as well. I was not here at the time, but Professor Dumbledore remembers it well. I can assure you we shall not be caught unawares a second time."

"Are there plans for closing it again?"

"We do not know where it is or how it can be closed," Professor Flitwick answered. "And yet, as long as Hogwarts is safe from outside forces, as it always has been, we shall be prepared to face the unknown threat of Slytherin's monster," he insisted in his squeaking voice.

"Why do people send their children here after everything that happened last year?"

"Hogwarts remains the safest school in Britain," the teacher said at length. Hermione had been under the impression it was the only school, but she remembered hearing it described as the island's 'premier school', meaning it was likely there were other, much smaller schools. They were probably few and far between, serving the more rural population of wizardkind. While anonymous, they would neither be hard to find, nor would they be well protected. If Hogwarts had been safe during the last war, she had to conclude that it must have been 'off-limits' in some way. Given that the dark wizard had intentionally spared the students who had attacked him, it was possible he had some desire to preserve Hogwarts, as it was likely he had been there himself. The idea gave her pause.

"Thank you, Professor," she said simply.

"Hermione, I mean not to discourage you from learning the truth for yourself. If you believe that you know something, however, the wise thing to do would be to tell us. Is there anything you wish to ask of me?"

"Is there any way to prove I haven't been using dark magic?" the young Ravenclaw asked after oscillating between two questions.

"No method is certain," the half-goblin answered, in thought. "Dark magic leaves traces, but these are imperceptible without the use of Legilimency, which I find unconscionable. If however, you would like for me to vouch for your character, I would be thrilled."

Hermione smiled for what felt like the first time in weeks.

"Thank you, sir, I would love that. Can you please ask Professor Sprout to tell the Hufflepuffs-"

"Oh, the little club suspects you still? It's a schoolgrounds rumor, nothing more."

"Sir, the leader of that 'little-"

"-has been expelled and removed from the grounds. Without their leader, they're children again." The idea forced her to consider the objective of protecting children. _If children are innocent, harmless little angels to be protected, why not put them all together?  
_

Having thanked her Head of House for arranging the meeting, she left, somewhat more confident in the teachers, but no more confident in her chances of survival. Even if the teachers managed to find and close the Chamber of Secrets, there were already more attacks than they could prevent, even if she were to give them a pass on the cat. And as the Hufflepuff boy had hardly been looking for the Heir, she was no safer hiding than she was going on the offensive. Her lip twitching, she had a thought that a casual observer might think she was brave striking out on her own, though she knew better. A lone wand was always quieter than a group, and it was fear itself that moved her further in her investigation. If everyone else was content to allow the killer to find them, that was their prerogative.

Seeing that it was getting dark, she made her way to the second floor, looking for the girls' toilet. She had been in there once before, though the experience was somewhat ruined by the resident ghost, who insisted on annoying her. Having heard stories about her from Ron, it was no surprise that he had the same impression of Moaning Myrtle. _Of course she's Myrtle Warren- she doesn't look like that old of a ghost._

The ghost seemed determined to remain invisible as she came into the bathroom, remembering that it was impossible for a ghost to surprise you if she were a constant presence.

"Myrtle..." she called out, opening a stall door with her wand, knowing better than to stand close enough to touch it. "I swear I'm not Olive Hornby..." It was possible the ghost was really just an afterimage, perpetually reliving the same moment, like an enchanted painting. She had never been under the impression ghosts were real in the normal world, and the concept seemed no less impossible with magic spells involved. What she had seen so far of the ghosts had only confirmed that suspicion. The Grey Lady would spend entire years in mourning, if you asked any of the older students, and Cho had been friends with Penelope Clearwater.

The toilet was dark as it always was at night, the torches did not light themselves after hours, as if the castle itself wanted to facilitate sneaking around. In some corner of her mind she recognized that it would make little sense to wake everyone whenever a teacher made his rounds. Even so, the darkness did little to lessen her fear as she saw her own silhouette pass by in the mirrors of the central pillar. Casting a light charm, she did not look so rough as she had at the end of the previous year, but the wear was beginning to show in her eyes. Behind her she saw movement, and her head rotated to the source- a stall door closing. Catching it with a muttered _Arresto Momentum,_ the door creaked back open to reveal the perfectly terrified visage of Mytle Warren, an expression alien, impossible, unthinkable on the face of a ghost. Slowly she raised a hand out of the toilet where she was hiding, her face becoming oddly human for a moment as it started silently pleading with her, the hand pointing in the direction behind Hermione's back.

 _How could I have been so stupid?_


	13. Rallying around the Ravenclaw

Being in a small school, Hannah was not surprised the news traveled quickly. Its nature, however, was the most shocking thing she had ever learned. _How can we lose Hermione?_ She tried to imagine life without her, but it was too hard. She had no idea whom she would ask for help in Potions, or whose History of Magic notes she would read. Kicking herself for being selfish, she did her best to listen carefully to Snape's lecture, which she knew he only did when it was important.

As she concluded her classes for the day, she remembered the teachers and their responses to the students and their concerns. Professor Flitwick insisted his student was not dead and would be revived, her own Head of House told them about Mandrakes and their curative properties, which she found absolutely fascinating, but not enough to distract her from the story about the Chamber of Secrets that they got out of Professor McGonagall. All Lockhart did was throw Cornish pixies at them, one of which Draco angrily knocked out of the air with a cutter.

Finding the odd image of Ron and Goyle standing around in a dungeon corridor, interrogating an uncomfortable Anthony Goldstein, she approached quietly.

"Oh, hi, Hannah," Ron started as he looked up, the Ravenclaw boy checking to see if this was a chance to escape, or possibly reveal that he had been the killer the whole time. _No, I'm getting ahead of myself again._ "Hermione was going to ask you something."

"She asked me who the second victim was and if I know him," she answered, remembering the other girl counted the cat. "I told her he's Justin Finch-Fletchley. I don't really know much about him, except that he and I are both from the Muggle world." Anthony's eyes seemed to light up a moment, but then he looked away.

"I knew it," the Gryffindor muttered cryptically. "Who found him there?"

"Leanne. Did you learn anything from Anthony?" Both of the other boys looked to find he had disappeared.

"Bloody Hell, he's _got_ to have an invisibility cloak."

"He knew the victim. She didn't tell him much," Goyle answered in place of Ron. Hannah remembered the Slytherin boy asking her if she had been friends with Neville. It was odd to hear him refer to Hermione as 'the victim' when he had to know her name. _Perhaps he's just getting into the role. I did always love police programs on the telly._ She imagined a young Goyle listening to magical radio for stories about Aurors hunting down Death Eaters, or perhaps the Death Eaters hunting down 'mudbloods'. Realizing a possible similarity between the two human victims, she suddenly felt awkward being near to him, knowing he was a blood purist, like Draco.

At the same time, Ron seemed unaware. He was rubbing his eyes.

"What do we know about Hermione?" Hannah asked, breaking a momentary silence. She had been barred from entering the toilet, as had all the other girls, though not many of them had been clamoring to get in.

"She was found with her wand in her hand, still lit, which is how they reckoned she was alive," the red-haired wizard started. "McGonagall said she'd have been facing the mirror, so might be she saw her attacker, he saw her- then hit 'er in the back with whatever kind of petrification variant it was. Nasty curse, really, they're still having trouble figuring out what it is." He seemed upset, on edge, but that might have been her imagination. "We know the attacker's the Heir of Slytherin, but he doesn't want anyone to know who he is." He looked at Goyle.

"I don't know who the Heir is. It's not Malfoy."

"Come off it, you don't suspect him at all?"

"No. If I suspected him, I would not tell you." Hannah had some understanding through Neville that Crabbe and Goyle owed some sort of allegiance to Draco, but that was pureblood politics.

"What about Justin?" she asked. "Did either of you see anything?"

"I saw Professor Snape rescue him. He was bleeding from the throat," the large Slytherin explained. "His blood was used for the message on the wall."

"What did Snape do?" Ron asked.

"He told us he had prepared a potion that could stop a heartbeat entirely. He thought what happened to that Gryffindor boy might happen to one of his own." Hannah wondered if the professor had told him that, or if it had been Malfoy. The idea interested the other boy.

"Snape didn't give him unic- what did he give Dean?"

"I don't know. It didn't work," Goyle answered as he turned to go. "I need to report back." Ron did not try to stop him, though that was possibly because he was lost in thought about some unknown subject.

"I haven't found your rat," Hannah said into the void. Met only with further silence, she said 'sorry', though she had tried really hard to find the rat after saying she would keep an eye out for it.

"Well, 's alright, really. He turns up every now and again. Probably just likes the freedom after I couldn't watch him last year," the boy reckoned as he took the animal from where he had been hidden in a schoolbag, letting him scurry across the floor. A few years ago, she would have wondered if it was terribly sanitary to have a rat running around like that, with all the places he could end up. "I really hope he gets used to it." Hannah decided to believe he meant that he was going to be busy again this year.

"Do you think Goyle's lying?"

"He believes it. Doesn't mean it's true, but I don't really know. It's what Hermione would say. She'd get upset if I tossed around suspicion without evidence." He sighed. "If it's the Heir of Slytherin they have to know _something_ , but I can't imagine any reason Malfoy would send Goyle to find Anthony unless he was looking into it himself. I saw Crabbe tailing a first-year- blue-trim robes on her of course."

"Well, I know it's- annoying, but I can't help but to think up everything that could possibly happen," Hannah explained. _He might be feeling bad for jumping to conclusions, now that Hermione is not around._

"Why's that annoying?" he asked, obviously never having had to put up with it.

"Most of the things that could possibly happen are terribly unlikely."

"Well, how likely are all of them put together?" he responded argumentatively. Thinking on it, he might have actually had something there. "It doesn't matter. We need to stay together. Last year we didn't let each other alone- couldn't risk Alecto coming back with a chip on her shoulder." The Hufflepuff had no idea who Alecto was. Neville had not mentioned anyone by that name. "We lost Neville, we lost Hermione, and now the only one who gives a damn is you."

"What's Professor Dumbledore doing?" she asked, agreeing that they needed to stay together, but annoyed that she was a third choice of sorts.

"Don't know, probably running a school," he answered, irritated. "He can't do everything at once. Really, though, it keeps the Ministry out, almost. Dad knows how they work and every other week there's a conference on how to take over Hogwarts. If he tries to go after threats, they say the students would be learning more if he focused on education. After last year when he kept their Inspectors from using Legilimency, they had a real field day with it. If a student dies, they're going to call for the school to close again, but it's not like they're not trying already. If they weren't twiddling their thumbs when a Death Eater attacked Flourish and Blotts, there wouldn't be any of them knocking on our doors." Hannah remembered hearing about it around the time he asked her to keep an eye out for a rat. "I don't mean to be taking this out on you," he muttered.

"It's okay. I think that it's mature of you to consider how I feel." Her mother had told her to confine her expectations around eleven and twelve year olds, and she grudgingly agreed. Most students her age were not horrible, but they were difficult to manage and she imagined the adults found them annoying, at least sometimes.

"Hermione got like this at the end of last year. I'm starting to see why," he explained. "Must have felt like she had to be responsible for everything. To think, I forgot about her between looking after Ginny and a bloody rat." The blonde witch said nothing back for a moment, lost in thought. "Can't do anything for her now."

"She's not dead," Hannah said without emphasis. His tone seemed to have forgotten that fact.

"We still need to keep looking without her. She was right about one thing- the only way out is through. If we don't do anything, we'll only end up like Justin- or someone else will." She wondered who he had on his mind, but remembered he had just mentioned Ginny. "We need to stay together, though. That's a mistake I won't make again."

"It's not all on you. She went off on her own." It was more complicated than that, she knew, but it felt better not to let him blame himself, at least not entirely. "I agree though. We need to stay together."

At length they decided to look on the seventh floor for a place to hide, as it was as far away from the second floor girls' toilet as was reasonable, and neither of them had heard about anything bad ever happening on the seventh floor.

Deciding to get back to her neglected assignments before searching, she could imagine any number of hiding places, but a few of them were too likely, like unused classrooms or broom closets. Eventually someone would go in for some reason. There was always the grounds, but that would be dreadfully cold even if they could make a shelter and if they learned warming charms, they would have to keep it from raining on them somehow. Sooner or later the grounds keeper would find them.

"Hi Hannah!" an echoing voice called.

"Hi, Friar!" she responded. The corpulent ghost had been polite enough to invite her to the anniversary of the death of Sir Nicholas in 1492, though she had been looking for the rat. He promised to keep an eye out for rats, especially in the kitchens, which he had never known to be a problem. Hannah remembered giggling at the image of the fat soul trying and failing to pilfer biscuits from the House Elves. "Have you seen any rats?"

"Not a one, child, and I have been looking rather diligently. I have swept the kitchens no fewer than a hundred times." He made her laugh, as he did for all Hufflepuffs. She remembered learning from an older student that the transparent holy man was playing with his own awareness that he was dead and could not eat, however much he missed the ability.

"Say, Brother, do you remember much from day to day?" she asked, her eyes still laughing.

"Oh, it all starts to run together after the first few centuries. Really I only remember up until I died, at least permanently. So each group of students is just as new as the first!"

"Are you kind of like a painting, then?"

"You know, I could have sworn there was a boy who asked me that just recently, though it might have been a century ago. See, I don't have a brain, so nothing ever gets tucked away for good. If I were ever a painting before, I'd have probably forgotten." Hannah thought that line of reasoning sounded familiar.

Classes the following day were quiet, especially Potions for the lack of Hermione. Ernie was talkative enough, but not as often correct, irritating the instructor even further.

"What is the most likely result of drinking an unknown potion?"

"You learn something," Ernie responded almost immediately. Snape's chalk might have broken in his hand as he wrote his painstakingly neat script on the board, but he retained his composure.

"Wizards are in a constant state of learning, Macmillan, though some have farther to go than others." The implication did not entirely fall on deaf ears, though Anthony only laughed awkwardly for a moment before the potions master stared at him. "What physical change is brought about, if you know...everything?" he asked, controlling his pace for emphasis, or possibly to disguise vampire fangs. As Hannah had yet to see them, she could not be sure they existed, but she could also not eliminate the possibility.

"I'd say you'd probably die," Ernie responded, undeterred.

"On- what- basis?" Professor Snape asked, whether to mock the boy or out of barely concealed rage she could not be certain.

"That's what everyone says."

"The world is full of dunderheads, but none of them are as incapable as you." The boy simply shrugged in response.

"You're only saying that because you're unhappy." The teacher silenced him with a wand movement, erasing everything on the chalkboard with another.

"You may all thank Macmillan for this utterly useless derailment of class," he muttered as he summoned another piece of chalk. "Potions have limited shelf lives, and a well crafted brew is designed to do no harm when not applicable. The most likely result of drinking an unknown potion is nothing." Hannah supposed that having to prove himself right was annoying, especially when it distracted from class. Her mother's ideas about what to expect from children rang through her mind and she imagined Snape's mother had neglected to bring it up. "As this was implied in a previous lecture, only a dunderhead would not be able to answer the question correctly."

Hannah simply nodded. It was a harsh judgement, but she too was a dunderhead and it was reasonable. She noticed none of the Ravenclaws had given the same answer as Ernie, who looked unmoved.

"I shall not accept convention as a basis for belief that imbibing a potion will be fatal. I shall not regard comments about myself as acceptable proof that you are not an utter fool. If you are capable of insight, I expect this to be simple enough to prove within the confines of the material. Fifty points from Hufflepuff." There was a nearly inaudible gasp from the back of the room, but it did not come from Hannah. Not only did Ernie have him derail class, he neglected to refer to the potions master as a professor. This was not the first time he had annoyed Snape, and perhaps he had hoped the boy would have learned his lesson and remained quiet from then on.

After classes ended, she proceeded to work on her assignments in an empty classroom, finding no good hiding places on the seventh floor, which for all intents and purposes seemed to be similar to the others. The Grey Lady was drifting by. _I suppose that means I really am alone right now._

Stretching her arms out in front of her, she exhaled as she allowed the Charms essay to vacate her mind for the moment. There seemed to be a million different ways of ending it.

 _"Colloportus,_ " she cast, pointing her wand at the door's lock. " _Alohamora."_ The locking mechanism opened visibly, the door having been open. " _Adhereo_." The latch became stuck in place. She found the sticking charm to be a clever trick of Hermione's since most people would think the door was locked at first. It would not keep them long, but they would have to either figure out the door was stuck or blast it open, which would at least alert her. The Ravenclaw was aware of wards that would alert her of unwanted intruders, but they required rather sophisticated spellwork. Getting up after scribbling out an ending to her essay, she thought about the hole left by Hermione Granger, reminding herself the girl was not quire dead. At least for now, it felt as if she was just hiding in the library studying, or maybe she ran away.

Walking out into the corridor and leaving her things behind for the moment, she took a walk in the direction the ghost had been moving. The area was empty, which was odd, but she supposed it was one of those quiet hours of the day. Passing by a corridor, she hoped for a quiet place, imagining comfortable furnishings and all manners of magical protection. Opening her eyes as if to remind herself to look at reality, there was a door she could have sworn had never been there. Looking around, it appeared no one was watching her, though she supposed Anthony could be lurking about with his invisibility cloak. Ron must have had a reason for thinking he had one.

The room within was a strange sight; it was like walking through the front door of a decidedly Muggle home. The windows peered out into what might looked like a neighborhood, other homes all along the street. Just under the window lied a garden- properly managed, and in season from what she could tell. Going upstairs, there were three bedrooms, one apparently occupied by man and wife, another occupied by a young girl, and a less tidy third that seemed to belong to a boy. Feeling out of place, she went back down the stairs, clicking on the telly absently, finding it odd they had one in the kitchen in addition to the one in the sitting room.

Shrugging her shoulders about the weirdness of it, as she had learned she would occasionally have to do sometime after learning about the magical world, she went back out the front door, finding herself in a hallway yet again.


	14. Heir of Slytherin

There were things that Draco was willing to suffer, things that he was not willing to suffer, and things that simply irked him to no end.

Reading all he could on the Heir was getting him no closer to who it might be, except that consistently it seemed he would at least be aware of it, and this was a _literal_ heirship, and whoever it was would be descended from Salazar himself. It was ever more likely that he was not the Heir, and without knowing his identity, Draco would be unable to befriend him. To make matters worse, there were still those who considered the Heir to be a rumor.

One of them went by the name Gilderoy Lockhart, who did not fail to speculate that a tired old legend was a good smokescreen for a coward with no achievements of his own. Draco's eyebrow raised and he could have sworn the Defense teacher nearly jumped.

"How do you intend to respond to the challenge, then?" he asked. Composed, he ceased writing about his adventures in the New Hebrides.

"The pretended Heir of Slytherin does not issue a challenge to me, Mr. Malfoy, for even an incompetent would undoubtedly know better than that. I pay no attention to trifling frauds, and I would recommend you do the same," he responded confidently. Draco could have sworn he heard Tracey swoon, to which he scowled, hoping Bulstrode did not fall for the professor's wiles, for all the good it would do. The wisdom of not responding to unworthy challenges might indicate that Lockhart had done his research on the Malfoy heir who disrespectfully raised an eyebrow every time the opportunity presented itself. These mostly took the form of obvious lies.

"The message specifically referred to 'enemies of the Heir', sir," Draco explained. "Does this mean you are not an enemy of the Heir? Far be it from me to criticize your controversial stance-"

"Those who do not exist have no enemies, as it is impossible and irrational to hate that which is not," the Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher responded, taking on an academic tone.

"You do not despise the ideas the Heir represents?" he asked, leaning ever further forward. In the corner of his eye, he could see Tracey going from appalled to interested in his bold defiance of the established professor. "Perhaps, then-"

"Mr. Malfoy, I do believe that if there were any chance at all the Heir existed, I would already know about him, or her of course, and I would have already proven myself as the superior duelist." His voice contained a sterner tone than it had before, and a Hufflepuff might have made an 'eep' noise as the normally perfectly proper Lockhart interrupted him as he was speaking.

"Very well, sir," Draco responded, both eyebrows raised. He stole a glance at Macmillan, who looked positively indignant. The boy got that way whenever he interrupted class, which was often enough to prove that the instructor had no idea about teaching a Defense class and was most likely a fraud. At the moment, the young Slytherin had no need to continue the line of conversation. There would be more than enough opportunities in the remainder of the year, provided the Heir did not select Lockhart as his next victim. Draco had no idea if he went after blood traitors, but he hoped they qualified, at least once the mudbloods were out of the way.

He and his father pitied the war orphans for their situation and lack of magical upbringing, but despite their unfortunate circumstances, the mudbloods remained a threat. In war between wizard and muggle, they would choose their perceived parents and the culture in which they were raised over the world of magic. If any of them were to be reclaimed, it would be only after the truth of their parentage was made known, and even then many of them would not see their adoptive parents as threats to the wizarding world. The idea irked him. In all wars, there would be those lost in the middle. For most of history, they simply chose not to take part, and if the mudbloods did the same they might as well be killed now, but the more likely reality was much worse. Knowing enough magic from being educated at Hogwarts, the war orphans raised by muggles would be happy to relate the secrets of warding to Muggle armies.

Once they learned even a few of the many advantages wizards possessed, the magical population of Britain would be exterminated within a matter of hours.

The Lord Malfoy confirmed beyond all possible doubt that much of what parents told their children about the capabilities of muggles was a necessity to allow them to sleep. Without the natural blessing of magic, they had wreaked horrors of machinery, created virulent and infectious diseases, and unraveled the very fabric of the forms that defined matter in the universe, reducing entire cities to blazing infernos, the cursed survivors doomed to walk about with sunken eyes and bulbous protrusions. The wizarding world might have survived the repeating rifle, but even before the muggles had it they hunted wizards like barking dogs after rabbits. He shook his head at the notion that the Statute of Secrecy was passed during the Nine Years War, when the magical were growing concerned about _warships_ , of all things. Perhaps the hope had been that without wizards as competition, the muggles would have less of a need to innovate, but they got by just fine killing each other. As much as they moaned about divisiveness and deaths, they had to realize constant war was making them stronger, forcing them to develop new technologies and strategies to strive for survival and dominance. There was no shortage of lives to lose, and if something that threatened all of them presented itself, they would either unify or kill each other in the struggle to kill it all the faster.

By contrast, the wizarding world had allowed itself to grow weak. Secrecy was an absolute necessity, and to make matters worse it lulled them into an entirely false sense of security. Wizards had greater combative abilities than they did before Hogwarts, but their ability to wage war against the muggles had stagnated if nothing else, and even that would be a blessing if true.

Lunch that day was a discussion with Crabbe, Goyle, and Nott. Creevey had insisted on coming along, which was tolerable if less than ideal. He would have to be brought up to speed sooner or later.

"Crabbe-" Draco directed.

"I got into the wing where they keep the bodies and found the boy," he started. Draco nodded, remembering that compound sentences were something of a strong suit for the boy. He contained his plaudit. "He said he didn't remember who attacked him and he doesn't know how he doesn't remember it. The mudblood wasn't moving and I didn't try to wake her." _Then you have done as you were ordered._

"We learned little from the Ravenclaw," Goyle explained without being prompted, referring to the mudblood, Goldstein. "She told him nothing before being attacked by the Heir." Draco had asked Professor Snape if it would be possible to use Legilimency on the petrified, and apparently it was simply outside the realm of possibilities. The victims were not dead, but their minds were unable to be subjected to the arts. "Weasley's looking into it," he added.

"I would expect as much, but it is no matter. He lacks resources and knowledge. Without the intent of helping the Heir, his path will lead him to ruin before long." Were he afforded the luxury of pity for his enemies, the red-haired wizard would have richly deserved it. Alone and squarely between the active factions in both Hufflepuff and Slytherin, he had no hope of surviving, much less rousing the mudblood girl.

"We have no word from the outside," Nott started, returning to the point. "The Death Eaters have not been able to tell us where the Dark Lord is on this."

"Are they able to tell us where he is in space?" Draco asked, moderately annoyed. "Would he perhaps be in Britain?" he asked, realizing he was close to disloyalty in speech. It was a simple matter, really, and he would have to accustom himself to it, but really he owed the same allegiance to his lord that Crabbe and Goyle owed him, given that his family had sworn allegiance. The Dark Lord sufficiently respected his bannermen, if he had decided to keep a careful eye on them for practical reasons. The Malfoy heir had been with his father when their master restored his original body to reclaim and he remembered how the white haired man bore the burning of his bright red Mark with a determined silence.

"He has chosen to keep the secret in the most effective way possible. We are yet few in number and whatever he does now, he believes to be more important than what is going on here," Nott explained respectfully. _He knows what's going on here? How can we possibly know that?_

"It would be my supposition that the Dark Lord would be supremely interested in the Heir of Slytherin, were he to be informed of it. I know he is capable of more than most wizards, but we would act foolishly to assume we do not need to tell him anything."

"For all we know, it was our master who pulls the strings here even now," Nott responded. "If he does not know, I see no reason to tell him. We are capable of discovering the truth of it, and the heritage of Slytherin is as much ours as it is his own." It was a controversial proposition, but it was essentially correct. Crabbe and Goyle looked lost, but that might have only been their normal expressions. Either way, the idea was something worth thought. _Father did say we cannot be content to allow the Dark Lord to rule over us entirely. Given his blood status, we can only assume that he will not value purity to the necessary extent.  
_

"I see your point," Draco said, deciding there was little to be lost shelving the idea. "In this event, we must turn our focus on the enemies of the Heir." There was a palpable silence as it was generally concluded that he was referring to Dumbledore's crowd. He supposed it was difficult to know when they were meant to stop pretending to be lambs, though he was not entirely certain a few of their number were truly not. Only last year, they tried to prevent the return of Voldemort, and had only escaped unscathed under the pretense that they did not know it was truly the Dark Lord himself, and not an imitator. Quietly, Draco expected the excuse would work for everyone except himself, generating a need to prove his loyalty.

"The Heir has proven he can take care of himself," Goyle decided at length.

"Perhaps, but it makes sense to befriend him," Nott contested. "If we were to be allowed into the Chamber of Secrets, there would be no end to the knowledge we could gain." The blonde wizard remembered that the boy told him the hat considered putting him in Ravenclaw for his love of secrets and knowledge, with that of his own family being the object of his most focused fascination.

"The Chamber would be worthy of exploration, but the Heir would be a powerful ally," Crabbe argued. "We can't help him by finding his hidden chamber, but we can help him by eliminating a few threats."

"What threats can we eliminate?" Nott asked logically. "We can't replace the teachers- well, we could do without Lockhart. A few of the Death Eaters would serve, but only if we seized the castle and there was nothing else for them to do." Goyle seemed to agree. "Realistically, it would be almost impossible for us to take down Flitwick or McGonagall-"

"So we impede the investigation," Draco concluded. "We can't kill anyone, that will be the Heir's business. We destroy evidence, throw suspicion around, and keep the unconscious from being roused." Nott seemed to take an interest in the idea.

"The Hufflepuffs would be especially interested in idle suspicion. We can trade it for real evidence if need be."

"We need someone to testify against an innocent party. Lockhart will do, since we can afford to lose him, and our accuser will probably be a useful Hufflepuff." Draco smirked. He doubted he could convince Tracey to bear witness against the Defense teacher even if she saw him write the blood warning on the walls. If anything, she would like him more.

The meeting adjourned for the time being, as they were still within the constraints of classes, they rose and went to class silently, their discussion having been muted by a muffling charm Nott knew for secret keeping. _To think I was preoccupied with the strategic advantage the mudblood girl would provide with her obsessive reading._

Taking notes in class, he reminded himself he was working to make himself more magically capable, the better to serve the ends of purity. He was aware most of the history they were reading was heavily revised in the last two decades, which was rather hasty in his opinion, even if he had no idea what the changes were. For one thing, the Salem Witch Trials were rendered into a joke, with the third year History of Magic textbooks reading that there were wizards who allowed themselves to be captured for the opportunity to use a flame-freezing charm on the flames while they were being 'burned' because it was delightfully ticklish. In Pucey's words, this was what firmly convinced him the text was lying outright. Perfectly capable of lighting fires themselves, wizards were perfectly capable of fulfilling their deviant fantasies without putting themselves in the precarious position of being caught, at which point pre-Statute muggles would have known to snap their wands.

They were meant to believe it was totally unrelated that the 1692 institution of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy coincided that the beginning of the witch trials; that it was simply better for both groups if wizards and muggles were separated.

News of the next victim came before classes were out. Kirkland Hart, the interim Muggle Studies teacher who was a mudblood himself was discovered dead by a group of Gryffindors out on the grounds. The man had not been bled dry like the previous deaths, but like the Ravenclaw it appeared there was nothing at all wrong with him, and for a moment there were those who hoped he was merely petrified, but the school nurse discovered his stillness was permanent. As Dean Thomas happened to be among the students who discovered him, Draco invented the notion that he petrified the teacher before using a killing curse, and the other students were covering for him. He knew from Nott's father that the black wizard was a half-blood, since his mother was a muggle and his father refused to help the Dark Lord before he died or disappeared.

Crabbe's responsibility was putting one of the Gryffindor witnesses to sleep and beating him. As fate would have it, that boy was Seamus Finnegan, another half-blood.

Goyle was the origin of the rumor that Lockhart was near the scene. This was not the direct message, of course, what he said was that he meant to dispel the rumor that the Defense teacher was close enough that he could hear the attack, as nothing in his statement made it necessary that he was that close.

Nott was to learn about the evidence the school had against the Heir after seeing if his friend Evan knew anything, which he had insisted on doing to follow up on a hunch. Creevey would accompany him to reduce suspicion, if at all possible. Really the younger boy was there to learn and hopefully not expose their entire operation, but there was no need to tell either of them that.

Draco reserved the hardest task for himself, which consisted of increasing pressure on Lockhart without making it seem like anything out of the ordinary. According to Padma, the Ravenclaws were already growing annoyed with the school's choice of Defense professor, though there was some variation among the older students, some of them particularly frustrated since 'at least Quirrell knew what he was doing', some of them grateful that the Headmaster could find anyone at all for the position.

The thought made him audibly sigh as he worked alone in the library, Pucey having left to work on the more advanced magic he was practicing. The books the Indian witch gave him were really putting him through his paces, but he could parse the arguments well enough to write refutations of the possibility of muggle-born wizards. Essentially, events called mutations took place every so often, but they were almost entirely neutral or fatal, and when they happened, they were few and far between. They did not serve as an explanation for the number and consistency of magical children claiming to have nonmagical parents, nor would they explain the increasing trend. Draco was aware that the entire reason the girl was speaking to him was because the concept fascinated her intellectually, and Ravenclaws generally did not reject possibilities without exploring them.

When she appeared in the library, he expected she would want to discuss all that they had read, but he found it was the opposite. She wore a distressed look and insisted they speak in private. He took her to the Invisibility section and attempted the charm Nott had used earlier, finding to his vexation that there was no way to see if it was working.

"Draco, what happened to Hermione? Do you know who did this?" she asked quietly.

 _This is not going to be easy._


	15. Interlude: Aurora, Astronomer

The students seemed sparser than they had been through her days at Hogwarts, though that was to be expected.

There were magical schools apart from Hogwarts, and they were facing a threat they had not faced in fifty years, which had resulted only in the temporary imprisonment of an innocent man. Aurora had not known him at the time, but after decades of working with him as gamekeeper, there was serious doubt he could hurt a fly, though the company he kept might, so she understood the false conviction.

What did not help his case was that he was a Slytherin.

A Ravenclaw in her own school days, she had been teaching since before Pomona but not quite as long as Filius- she had not gone to school with Rubeus, but it was a rare day that he did not smile pleasantly at her, whether he was chopping wood or chasing frightened wolves into the Forest, possibly as prey for what she preferred not to imagine. His genetic makeup made him the worst possible candidate for the champion of blood purism, and it seemed especially awful when there were so many more obvious choices.

A second-year, Draco Malfoy seemed disappointed to learn there were no astronomical explanations for the fifty year gap between the openings of the Chamber of Secrets, and more than a little annoyed that there were no events that were supposed to take place upon the birth of the Heir of Slytherin, and though it went against a deontological idea of fairness, she suspected he had hoped for his own birth star.

"Mr. Malfoy, you have inherited plenty in your short life; I do not believe you require Slytherin's fortune," she had said one night as she was having the second years examine the patterns of Mars. _Astronomy may inform Divination, but I profess to be no expert on the subject- if such a thing exists._ "Consider gaining what you cannot inherit instead." The implication was that he should gain knowledge, or perhaps a more inquisitive, focused mind. From what she saw last year, she counted him as one waiting on his share of the family fortune, which, as it turned out, would be all of it. _It's uncharitable to write a student off. No matter the place from which he comes, no matter what he believes, it remains my responsibility to teach him._

Over the next few days she made it a personal mission to ensure that the blonde wizard learn all that she could teach him, or at least that he overcome the notion that he would inherit everything he needed or wanted. It was an unbearable thing, seeing a student who had no wish to learn. _In the worst of cases, he'll at least accept the study as something he needs to know for OWL's, or if nothing else this year's final marks._

Contrary to her expectations, she found he actually enjoyed the material.

"Professor Sinistra, what's beyond the furthest star we've seen?" he asked quietly as she was explaining something more germane to what they were learning to another student. It was not the first of such questions.

"The simple answer is that we do not know. There are those who believe space to be infinite, there are those who believe it curves, that if you were to travel in any one direction for long enough, you would eventually be back where you started. In either case, no one has seen it."

Many wizards had not heard much of Muggle space travel, which she supposed was understandable given that Muggle Studies was an elective, though Aurora was opposed to this for many reasons, firstly because of all the knowledge the magical world considered unimportant. Though Kirkland had not been a friend of hers, it pained her to hear of his passing, especially under the circumstances. It was in the trying times with the purists growing bolder that reminders of the humanity of muggles was most necessary- she could think of no other reason that he would have been targeted, and it was the reason she had shared, meeting with Filius and Severus.

"I do not know... everything," the Potions master had been saying as she rounded the corner, catching sight of them in the corridor. A black eye picked her out immediately.

"No one knows everything," the Charms teacher squeaked, perhaps in annoyance. Aurora understood the two of them had a passing respect for each other, despite numerous academic and pedagogical disagreements. "I merely suggest you know more than you have told me."

"I do not know who the Heir of Slytherin is. In the unlikely event that I discover his identity, I shall resolve the matter myself."

The idea came over her that he was protecting someone.

"People are dying, Severus," she implored.

"That is not my responsibility. I refuse to allow any of my students to come under needless suspicion," he explained curtly as he walked off. She had heard a few of the older students in his House talking about their suspicions, one of which being that the Heir would be a Parselmouth, most likely. There were rumors of the language being heard in the dungeons, but that was almost entirely idle suspicion- not only was it possible to learn the language, rumor invariably ran wild under these circumstances. There had already been talk of hissing sounds, and as she understood it, the language was little more than that.

"Filius, what have you heard?"

"Hermione Granger, one of mine, has been petrified." It did not escape her notice that he did not say 'one of ours'. _He is Head of House-_

"Were you asking for a potion to revive her?" The question escaped her before he could continue.

"That is a matter for Pomona, my dear, at least for now. She will request help from Severus when her part is done- never mind that, though, how are the students?"

"I have a Gryffindor boy who seems to want to get everything done in under a minute. I have reminded him multiple times that he is not to do assignments for other classes while confined to mine." Filius responded with a chuckle. It was well known that he believed in allowing the students, at least the older ones, to use their time as they thought best.

"What year is he?" the old wizard asked, momentarily distracted by a sound she could not quite make out. It might have been coming from a spare classroom.

"He's a second year."

"Well, Granger's a second year, and she's a good head on her shoulders," he communicated, almost defensively. Aurora supposed it was inevitable someone would call the girl's sensibilities into question, though to her, searching for the Chamber seemed the reasonable thing to do, even if it meant striking out on her own. The young witch could have heard the rumor about the serpentine taps on the sink in the second floor toilet, making the connection to Salazar Slytherin. _Poor dear- she would have known it would be sooner or later that the Heir would single her out, leaving her little reason not to go looking._

"I trust she was doing exemplary work in your classes as well?"

"Perfect, actually- she gave me a clue of how the little gang in Hufflepuff has been treating her just recently. They continue to suspect her of dark magic." Aurora would have told the girl that they were only jealous of her, though in truth that would have been idle suspicion as well. She had no idea whether Pomona's students truly believed Hermione Granger was using dark magic; the very concept of it just escaped her. Dark magic was esoteric at best, and even with natural talent, but it almost always required years of study and caused unmistakable changes in the user. The fact that there was serious suspicion of an outwardly normal Hogwarts student using dark magic meant that it had been so long since anyone had seen it or the effects it had, that few remained who actually knew what it was.

In her classes, the Hufflepuff students performed at their usual level, and there seemed to be no way of telling who was a member of the 'little gang' and who was not. It was moderately unsettling, though after a fashion it was really none of her business if they wanted to associate.

"What has Pomona said about it?"

"Her response was different from what I would have expected," Filius responded, staring off wistfully as though something else occupied his mind. "It is her belief that friendship is a great thing, and being a good friend is one of the central traits of the ideal Hufflepuff. The students involved have erred, forming an exclusive group that seems to hedge out the outliers, in her opinion, but to disband them would be to keep them from forming the friendships they wished. In the adult world, it may well cost our former students to befriend someone excluded or refuse to befriend someone included, but only by accepting these costs can they be true friends."

Aurora simply nodded. It was a long explanation, but she saw nothing wrong with it. Young witches and wizards were free to choose whether or not they wanted to associate with people, and they could only choose to include others if they could choose not to include them.

"You believe Severus knows something."

"I've heard the same rumors you have, I believe," the Charms teacher offered before setting off in the direction of the stairs. "Argus is having a hard time with the wall- I believe there are dark enchantments on the blood- I've also asked Severus about that, and I'm beginning to think we need another former Death Eater." _I suppose the one we have is either not enough 'Death Eater' or not enough 'former'._

"You don't still hold it against him?"

"A year ago I said the war was over. Now it has begun anew," Filius offered as he stared at the blood on the walls.

"The Heir of Slytherin has most likely chosen now to strike because of the return of Lord Voldemort," Aurora decided.

"Don't make the same mistake as the astrologists," the aged wizard cautioned with a squeak. "Merely that two events happened at a similar time, or one before the other, does not prove a causal relationship."

The astronomy teacher nodded to the idea, though what she had been suggesting was non-deterministic.

The conversation concluded not long after that, with Aurora resolving to keep an eye on the students in her class, unburdened by being a Head of House. There was a chance it would all lead nowhere, or that the Heir would be thwarted by a handful of first-years again, though that seemed highly unlikely. It was a wonder that the students survived the dark wizard on his way out, much more so that they were able to work everything out before then, and all while being in the worst trouble of their lives with the school. What escaped her more than anything else was the idea of Draco Malfoy helping them, though she supposed he could have had a reason. It had always struck her as odd that the old families of Britain were willing to risk their lives and lands for a wizard everyone else believed to be mad, and it was quite possible that once he was gone, they were glad to be rid of him. It was something she had just accepted during the conflict, that the reasoning of the opposition made little sense, but she remembered deciding to allow it to continue to confuse her, rather than establish it as entirely figured out.

Aurora remembered a conversation with a Hufflepuff witch several years ago, one whose name she had forgotten.

"I find it preferable to be unable to answer questions, given the alternative of being unable to question answers, dear," she had said one night while staring through a telescope. The student's work was good enough, but she was a touch too interested in the applications of Astronomy in Divination. _There's more than one reason I don't allow work for another class to take place during mine._ "Fortunately the prophetic arts offer no certainties," she remembered continuing as the girl's expression quickly changed back to a blank one. "For that reason, many wizards grant them no concern at all, and are wise in so doing."

"Professor, the seers have put centuries of work into the arts," the student protested. It was coming back now that this was after the death of Voldemort, which was of course foretold by prophecy. Filius had told her on more than one occasion he pointed to prophecies of his being stronger than ever, prophecies of his ruling all of Europe, though these were of course ignored the moment they were proven false by reality.

"There is such a thing as work wasted, and you would do well not to make the same mistake," she cautioned, remembering the years of scholarship that went into a concept now infamously known as 'Unlimited Transfiguration', never to be mentioned again. "I have a great respect for Helga Hufflepuff and those of her House, but hard work is not all that is required."

Taking into account all that had come about since then, the time between Voldemort's death and return was easy to forget. It was easy to remember the boundless optimism that immediately came after, but the eleven years of days and nights at Hogwarts were filled with an odd apprehension, a strange sense of a waiting game that ordinarily took place before struggle rather than after it. She remembered seeing her first student who most likely did not recall a single day of the reign of terror, expecting a look of pure joy on his face, untarnished by the realities of the worst the state of the world could become. Instead, her friend's son simply looked around impatiently, uninterested in meeting a Hogwarts teacher, though he would undoubtedly be seeing her in a few years.

Aurora retrospectively decided that the children of that age group could not be expected to know what they had missed, which she supposed was the best possible outcome.

By contrast, it was unfortunate how soon they would learn.

Setting off for her office in the Astronomy Tower, she passed the empty paintings, their subjects avoiding the stairwell, as if the Heir would not paint over them with blood if they were not there, or perhaps out of naked fear for lives they did not have to lose. As the ghost of a smile passed over her face she realized that Neville Longbottom, another inquisitive student, unlike his classmates who had never known the horrors of war, visited a pair of casualties at Saint Mungo's every so often, until he became one himself. Aurora had not taken part in the conflict, but their suffering had been all over the _Prophet_ , though only after they were done printing about the death of Voldemort.

Aurora resolved to continue to look into the matter of the Chamber, though the students were much closer than what she usually observed. _Astrolobes and telescopes will be of no use under these circumstances. Whatever I find, I shall see it the old fashioned way, as the astronomers of old- with my eyes._ Whatever valuable information she witnessed would be what passed in front of her. _Turning this into an academic investigation seems impossible- I'm sure the logician in Filius is having the time of his life, Septima already has it worked out with arithmancy- here I am, head in the clouds as always._

She sighed, deciding thinking of that nature would not put her any closer to finding the Heir, protecting the students, or even seeing them pass. Her office was quiet, dark as she left it, and free of distraction save a large, circular window, out of which she would find herself staring for hours on end. Grading a few assignments, she found one essay regarding gravity and inertia to be quite poor, though it was possible the student in question was just unfamiliar with the terms. Aurora had been trying to integrate the occasional word or phrase from astrophysics, a Muggle science she had studied, but it appeared introducing gravity required introducing force and by extension mass and acceleration, which were wholly unfamiliar to the young witches and wizards, especially from pure families. There had been talk years ago about integrating sciences from the nonmagical into the curriculum, but it was wholly rejected, since students wishing to study those areas were at liberty to do so after leaving Hogwarts. Secretly, she and Pomona shared the suspicion that it was about making sure the magical children learned about their magical heritage, but what really concerned her was that very few students went on to pursue higher education. The population of the wizarding world was decreasing, meaning there would be plenty of jobs available for all levels of education, and the occupations all paid reasonably well. Economics was a field more interesting to Septima than herself, though she was not denying the arithmancer's conclusions as to why the majority of graduates were uninterested in further study.

Noticing a few lines of what looked like Sanskrit in the margin of a student's essay, she wondered where they were finding the time in Ancient Runes to learn it, though that was unimportant. As per her requirement of the students that they not do other work while doing her work, she docked a point and made a note of it. It seemed like too many students were not taking the class or the assignments seriously, or at least not enough to devote their full attention, which was a frustrating aspect of the job, though she supposed the children had as much on their minds as she had on her own.

 _I suppose I should expect something out of the ordinary every now and then._

Aurora went back to the previous student's paper and restored half a point.


	16. Inspecting the Inspectors

Ron's disguise fit him poorly for many reasons.

He was tall enough for a twelve year old, but he was not used to masquerading as a grown man. His appearance continued to unnerve him; even though he had already seen it, he felt the need to pass by reflective surfaces to see the strange face glancing back at him. He had done as much reading as he could tolerate about Pius Thicknesse and he already hated the wizard, which dissolved any of the guilt he might have felt about borrowing his appearance. He knew his disguise was highly intelligent, and clever enough besides, and as a result he would be making as few waves as possible. If he spoke to someone he would be as professional as he could manage, and end conversations quickly without being curt. As a senior official in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, it could be presumed he had things to do and places to be.

Taking the elevator down with an Unspeakable named Croaker, he learned the man had a way of speaking that revealed nothing at all, and a way of asking leading questions. 'Pius' quickly decided against continuing on any important matters.

"I am here for the most recent reports from Hogwarts," he said, remembering that he should avoid asking any questions that his disguise would not need to ask.

"You'll find they're rather insistent on handling it themselves. If you lot could get in there, we'd be happy to plant our roots, but it's all quiet in the Highlands until the next Inspection. We only heard about the death from our old girl in the neighboring town. She has a way of getting information out of students."

"I see," Ron responded uncomfortably. He had some idea that Thicknesse was a reserved gentleman, which suited the situation well enough. "What of the appointments?" he asked ambiguously.

"Umbridge's hat is in the ring, more or less. Bagnold never wanted the office, she just used the old cow for a recommend to put her reputation back together topside." The two of them exited the elevator, stepping out into an unfamiliar corridor of black marble.

"I wouldn't mind locking the two of them in a room together," Ron opined, eliciting a small chuckle from the Unspeakable. "-preferably, of course, a small one, on a small island." They went through a maze of blue flames and identical doors to reach Croaker's destination, which he decided was the best he could do for now.

"She's regarded well enough down here, of course."

"You don't like her, though, do you?" 'Pius' asked, stepping out of the dialogue a moment and kicking himself for it.

"It's a long story," the Unspeakable explained at length, reading some papers on a table before what looked to be a tank with a pair of brains submerged in green fluid. _I'd like to say I'm sure that isn't pond water, but-_ "You start the job wanting something other than a paycheck, that's a given." Ron nodded, not trusting himself to speak at the moment. He imagined the salary for an Unspeakable would be enough to live, but would hardly balance out the secrecy one would have to constantly maintain. "You get the authority types like Bagnold, trying to monitor every square inch of the island."

Ron did not need to ask Croaker if he saw himself differently, he simply acknowledged the descriptor.

"Where is Bagnold working now?" he asked instead, thinking better of using the Quidditch term 'during the offseason'.

"I don't work with her, luckily enough. I know why you're interested, you want to see if you can get someone in Hogwarts, but until Umbridge can pass the Edict, there's no way in." Deciding against asking what that was, as it was most probable he was meant to know, Ron started on his retreat, noticing the gum was losing flavor.

"Do you have a street exit you use?" he asked politely.

"Right this way, but you won't hear an end to the objections to having it at all." The Unspeakable led him in the direction of the circular room with the torches. "Minister wants us in every nook and cranny, people's houses, girls' toilets, don't even ask why, but it just won't do if someone stumbles upon this place by accident." Going through a different door, they were in what looked to be a library except with crystal balls instead of books. _Reckon Trelawney would throw a fit to see this room..._

"That's what I've heard," the false Thicknesse said, pursing his lips. From what little he knew, the wizard would disapprove of a street exit, but it would not be a hill on which he wanted to die. The pair of them walked to what appeared to be a wall safe, but turned out to be a dumbwaiter for carrying him up to a nondescript utility room, which was meant to have a Muggle-Repelling Charm.

"I didn't take you for one who chews gum, sir," Croaker said as he boarded the dumbwaiter.

"I didn't take you for unobservant. Let that be a lesson for one of us," Ron muttered cryptically. The diction he was expected to use was tiring, but he knew well enough how to imitate an official. Between listening to their endless waffle on wizarding radio and visiting the Ministry with his father for the occasional teachable moment, he was relatively sure the officials themselves were merely better at the imitation. It was an oft-muttered catchphrase of the _Prophet_ and the street that the primary problem with the government was the lack of competence, which led to corruption as officials took on new powers after failing to handle their previous responsibilities well enough, and overlooked the occasional power grabber. His thoughts turned to Ebony as his disguise faded and he walked into the London Underground from the electrical room sure to fascinate his father. _How does a Hufflepuff end up trying to seize authority through the Department anyway?_

Taking the portkey his brothers had given him back to Hogsmeade, he decided it was fitting someone who believes in hard work would occasionally be the same person who tries to rise through the ranks, but it was also possible Voldemort had simply run them out of Slytherins.

As the grinning faces of the twins appeared, he decided he would not ask them where they got a pair of portkeys and to never try to prank them again.

"Who would have guessed- it's a Weasley wearing proper robes!" Fred started. The robes had been stolen, he assumed, but really it was all the same to him. His brothers had told him they intended to return the robes sooner or later, provided that they could return them to their original owner without being caught and that they never took a liking to them.

"Just think of how proud dear old mum would be, seeing you all dressed up like this," George jabbed, leading him into a tavern he had never seen before, taking him upstairs past the ancient-looking barkeep. Resolving to debrief him later about what he learned from the Ministry, their questions mostly had to do with the gum, since, of course, he was the first to field-test it.

Getting back to the castle after the twins made their uncharacteristically careful notes, he worked on his assignments until Hannah came and found him, promising a worthwhile distraction. They went to the seventh floor, where it turned out the Hufflepuff had managed to find a room for them to use, causing him to feel a moment of shame, as he had not looked himself. _Well, what's important is that we have a place to hide._

"D'you reckon the teachers know about this place?" he asked as the blonde witch explained its magical properties, in her observation. He was relatively sure a few of them were wild guesses.

"I don't believe so. I haven't checked," she answered, walking around the Muggle home. _I guess it's fitting she'd be at home here._ "I don't know if we're still at Hogwarts or if we just disappeared and reappeared in a regular neighborhood, but that would be weird."

"Yeah, I don't think they'd have a room like that." He tested a window both with his wand and with his hands to find that he could not open it. Deciding both his father and Hermione would be fascinated, but for different reasons, he set himself down on the loveseat and asked Hannah what she knew about the death. He had not taken Muggle Studies and had no plans to start between his father and Hermione telling him more than he wanted to know, the latter being the more reliable.

"Well, I don't know a lot," she said reasonably. "Some are calling for an investigation, but some are already calling for blood. Seamus and Ernie are inseparable now." Ron's eyebrows raised almost involuntarily.

"What happened?"

"Seamus says he was meant to be silenced- he was put to sleep somehow, and he has a bruise, but when he woke he had been carried back to the dormitory. Susan said it was Dean Thomas. She found Victor Crabbe lying on the ground at the scene- he's facing expulsion." He noticed she was sticking to the facts, which he appreciated. _Might be she changed her mind about speculation.  
_

"So he's coming 'round to where Ernie and the rest of them stand on things?" Hannah nodded. "Didn't know Dean to be the shining armor type." Ron was beginning to wonder how well he knew his friends at all. Seamus rarely cared for authority, and in this event he likely made Dumbledore out to be the authority, which was fair enough. "I reckon it could be a one time thing."

"I spoke with Anthony," the Hufflepuff started, changing the subject as she rose to fill a glass of water from the taps. As his brow furrowed until he decided she was talking about Goldstein, the Ravenclaw, he watched her decide to get down two glasses. "He knows that the Heir is targeting people connected with muggles, and he plans to go home for Christmas holiday and not come back." Ron was about to comment on it, but decided he really could not blame the boy for wanting nothing to do with it. Hermione had tried to get out herself.

"Does he know anything?" he asked, hoping perhaps for something helpful for a change. Looking about the sitting room, there was a multiplicity of Muggle pictures on the wall.

"No. Do you know if the Aurors are looking into it?" Hannah handed him a glass and he thanked her, if quietly. _Probably figures I would know because I'm a Ministry brat_.

"Dumbledore's keeping everyone out." He had a thought that growing up among muggles, Hannah likely thought Aurors were like police officers. He could tell her that the Hit Wizards handled the day to day crime like murders, but he saw no particular reason to clear it up. "I don't know what the plan is, but he can't let the Ministry swoop in and rescue us; he'd never get rid of them again." He sighed. "Are we still allowed to go on the grounds?"

"We're not allowed to be in here. Technically, we're both supposed to be in our common rooms where they can watch us." She swallowed, staring off into space. "I think they're probably right about that. If the killer doesn't want to be found, he won't go attacking us in groups," she explained, a bit hopefully.

"That's probably the best thing they can do. I reckon it won't be a minute before we get a _Prophet_ headline about Dumbledore neglecting education," he muttered, frustrated. _We'll never get to the bottom of this if we hide it out. Teachers are probably hoping to make it to Christmas holiday without another attack so they can send us home._

The problem with the plan was staring him in the face. Ginny Weasley did not follow rules. She was always sneaking out after curfew, to the point where he had taken up waiting in the common room, earning the mockery of a few of the older students.

"Well, as long as the students are safe..." Hannah started. Ron snorted. "What?" she asked, loudly.

"We'd a been safe at home!" he explained, adopting a bemused tone. "That's not the point, though. If we just go through life without danger- well, we'll never learn anything. We're not going to learn if we can't so much as _go to the library_ without an armed guard-"

"Since when have you been concerned with learning- or going to the library for that matter? You just want to chase down the killer yourself, devil may care about the consequences to everyone else!" she shouted as she rose, hands balled into fists.

"You don't _know_ that!" he shouted angrily back, not bothering to get up. "You're just like the rest of them, aren't you? You just make things up and it doesn't matter if it's not true!" Hannah had tears streaming down her face. _How did it come to this?_

"Right! _I alone_ have- my suspicions!" she started to storm off, but turned around again. "Hermione told me you suspected the Slytherins the moment Justin was attacked!"

Deciding he could not let her run off, however much he would like to, he let her have a head start out the door. Duty and past failure compelled him to rise as the door slammed, though he wondered for a moment if anyone on the other side heard it. _If he's going after the Muggle brats he might mistake Hannah for one._

Catching sight of her at the end of the hall already, he momentarily considered there might be a time delay inside the mysterious room, the door disappearing behind him as he looked back. He was momentarily at a loss as to how to explain that his suspicion was justified, but that sort of thing could wait. He could not let Hannah end up the same way as Hermione- or worse.

The Hufflepuff's pace audibly increased, probably aware he was following her. _Fine by me, she's less likely to be hit._ Keeping an eye out behind his own back, he nearly collided with a column as he rounded a corner, ducking a stinging hex. _Reckon it's about time to learn a shield charm._ Hermione had attempted it, but most of her time learning advanced magic had been spent on the summoning charm.

At last succeeding in chasing Hannah to the entrance to her common room, he made to return to his own, hoping to slip behind the portrait before anyone noticed. Somehow he doubted it would work. It was as if whoever designed the entrance wanted to make it impossible to sneak in. Earning little more than a long look from Oliver Wood, he went up to the dormitory silently, guessing McGonagall was off guard duty at the moment. Dean was working quietly, and he chose to respond with the same silence. The task was somewhat more difficult with Seamus.

"Ron, what do you know about Malfoy?"

"Leave me alone. What makes you think I know about him? You're the one who fancies him."

"Come off it, you have to know something," the Irish wizard goaded. "You're always muttering about how they're up to something."

"They usually are- it doesn't mean they're up to... _this_. Do you really think _Malfoy_ could do something like this?" Seamus loudly sighed at his objection.

"Fine, they're just _helping_ or something. They cursed me! And why are _you_ sticking up for them?"

"I'm not, you're just not talking sense-"

"Are you associating with them again? Is that what you're off doing all the time?" Ron's face might have been flush, but he would not have known, with his vision all red. He found it progressively more difficult not to draw his wand.

"I haven't spoken to Malfoy all year! I don't know what he's up to!"

"Then how do you know he's not the Heir?"

McGonagall entered as Ron was about to respond, shutting them both down immediately.

"Misters Finnigan and Weasley-" They looked at her silently. "While it is the case that nerves are running high and students may find themselves without another place to discuss such matters, the dormitories are quiet areas and wild guesswork will get you nowhere, despite your shouting." The Transfiguration teacher audibly exhaled. "I suggest that you direct any and all concerns to me if you have them, Mr. Finnigan. Mr. Weasley has been more cooperative this year." Swearing under his breath, the other boy went to bed without saying anything to him after they waited for their Head of House to leave. In truth, Ron wondered why the boy did not report the incident where Crabbe had tried to beat him, but figured it must have already been reported, like as not by the time he woke up.

Seamus would have been left spinning his wheels trying to catch up with the situation, chasing down every possible lead to make up for having to be carried, magically or otherwise, to the dorm while his assailant was apprehended by another.

Scabbers crawled up to the side of the bed and stared at him.

"I'll make things right in the morning," he promised. The rat curled up in the region of his sheets spilling out sloppily onto the floor. "I've got a lot of things to make right, old friend. I just wish I had a better idea of what I'm doing." He stared up at the curtains of the four-poster. "I'd take a hint."


	17. Winter Holiday

Anthony could not have gone home soon enough, but it seemed there were those with other ideas.

"Professor McGonagall, I am aware that I am a target here, but I was never a target at home. It is unlikely that the culprit will go after me when I leave Hogwarts," he remembered explaining as he took the train home. His explanation was accepted, if grudgingly. The school's staff seemed to believe that being there was safer than being away, and it was most likely because of the defensive advantage that the castle provided, but he told anyone who asked that they were being irrational. The story was that they were counting the incident with Hermione, when really that should be dismissed since it was unlikely in the first place. Further, he insisted that the insistence that students remain at school could be explained by psychological reasons. Anthony knew perfectly well that it was neither the only possible explanation nor the most likely, but he needed to get out and once the concept that a party in an argument could be psychologically compromised is introduced, the other party almost invariably won.

His parents lived in an apartment building with a private security system, which was the requisite for living in London while risk-averse. It was objectively true that people like Weasley accomplished things by seeking out risks, but Anthony and his parents found it was better to avoid them. There would always be others who would take risks, and if for some reason they were unavailable, the marginally willing could be goaded into it. He did his best to avoid having to throw people at dangers; it left a bad taste in his mouth, but really they were throwing themselves, and all he was doing was making suggestions.

Getting off the train at King's Cross, his memories went back to Goyle and Weasley interrogating him, mostly about Hermione, who had told him more than enough of her ideas, but also requested that he keep them secret. He knew the two of them were friends of convenience for her, but could hardly imagine what she saw in either as confidants. From what he knew of the mind arts, which he had investigated straight after finding out about them, it was easy enough to take information from the heads of the simple-minded, and editing their memories seemed easy enough in principle.

Getting in a cab, he spotted another student being chauffeured home by his parents, which hardly seemed necessary. The Goldsteins preferred a practical approach and independent children. His younger sister was going to school in Canada while living with his grandparents, who commented they needed to do little in the way of watching her and less in the way of disciplining her.

As the car reached his intended destination, he paid the calculated fee and moved on. His street clothes that he wore everywhere were a simple brown suit, much less distinguishable than Hogwarts robes. His father was more distinguishable, but he himself neglected the standard broad brimmed hat and unshaven forelocks. The look made him stand out, and it simply did not fit him, as he resembled his mother more.

"Welcome home, Anthony." Dr. Goldstein was standing at the door with his arms wide. A mountain of a man, there was a time he would have scooped up his son and danced with him.

"Good day, father," he responded simply. He took his shrunken trunk out of his pocket, but remembered he was forbidden from enlarging it again while outside of school. _Father will get it after supper._ The home smelled of a German stew, a favorite of his mother's that had become a favorite of his own many years ago without his notice.

"We were disturbed about your letters from school," his mother said. "Is it really that dangerous?"

"Historically, no. They've technically not had a student die in fifty years."

"Before that?" his mother asked, his father momentarily going down to the magically concealed basement, which was really just an impossible space in a trunk. Anthony spent about eight years as a child thinking it was a real basement, never having said anything to indicate his understanding, which consequently went uncorrected. _I imagine he's working on that project again._

"Hermione would know more, but basically things were okay before that, too. They had a few minor incidents, but student deaths were extremely few and far between. I suspect this has something to do with the magic of the castle itself, but that would be something kept secret." His mother nodded understandingly as the two of them sat down to eat. She ran an online trading service, so she only left home when she felt like it. This convenience gave her the time to learn everything she had always wanted to learn, and she would hardly allow him to discover a secret without finding out what it was herself.

"Would that be a magical warding to protect the students against all conceivable dangers?" His father came back up, joining them.

"I would think so, but either way it's something the Founders would have concealed intentionally. They probably burned the book," he supposed as his mother sighed. She was not disappointed in him, just being kept from information. For a muggle, she had a curious mind regarding magic, which was probably what attracted her to his father after he graduated from Durmstrang, which had been less complicated for him than it had been for his mother. "It's also not working well enough. A teacher just died."

His parents demanded he relate what happened, which he did over the course of the next few hours, only allowing him to stop upon insisting that he stay away, especially after telling people he was muggle-raised, or at least letting them get the idea. At the time, it made sense to have people believe that he had a disadvantage.

After supper he went down to the basement with his father.

"Anthony, you must always remember to be proud of who you are," he started, turning on the light with a wave of his hand. The 'project' was supine on the table, a long sheet of parchment on top of it.

"Is this about my-"

"This is about your magical heritage, my boy. I would prefer that you dress in our customs, but I have been lenient at your mother's insistence." Dr. Goldstein dashed the project with what looked like muddy water. "I understand if you do not want to stand out." Anthony took another length of parchment from a nearby shelf as the first started to glow, absorbing into the clay. "I understand if you want to keep my work secret." his father continued as he looked over the sheet before placing it on top of the first. "But you must never hide who you are." The project's eyes glowed with a piercing blue.

The golem rose, the first of its kind.

"Father, it's working," he said uselessly, still finding it hard to believe it.

"I'm putting my degree in computer science to use, it seems." His father had attended a prestigious school in America immediately after graduating from Durmstrang, as he told it. It was quite the change of scene, but it was perfectly necessary for the project. The administration at Durmstrang had given him a diploma that normal schools would accept, which was a service more commonly provided in the magical world of today than that of yesterday.

"What do you mean to do with it?" he asked, never having thought the project would come to life the way Dr. Goldstein had hoped. Previous magicians had all managed to rouse golems, but only for short times, and they were only capable of simple, impulsive commands. The previous creations born in this impossible space of a basement had invariably exploded, unable to process the code, or perhaps refusing to adapt to it.

"Nothing yet. This is a proof of concept. From here I can learn more." He put away his instruments, not bothering to deactivate the golem in any way. "Tonight we see if it will last until morning." He made to walk back up the stairs, but did not yet turn off the light. _I should ask him if he can grow my trunk in the morning. There's nothing I need out of it at the moment._

"Okay," he said, not knowing how else to respond.

"Anthony, one day you will learn of your heritage. It is a long and great story, with its triumphs and its misery. Do not think I know nothing of the way the Death Eaters go on about their pure lines, but none of them have been around since before the days of the Romans. They will hate you because of what you told them, but if you told them who your father was, they would still hate you. They had men where I lived and they will not forget that I refused to help them."

The two of them went up into the apartment proper again, his mother shaking her head. It was not the first time he heard her jokingly suggest that he move the bed in there since he loved his work so much. Anthony knew what was going on with the joke; his parents had told him what he needed to know a fair bit before most other parents got around to the awkward discussion. They were strong proponents of practicality and necessity, and looking back on it, he was amused the previous year when there were students his age who did not know. He would not have wanted to be one of them.

After the three of them walked around London for a bit, which he had wanted to do after being away, they quickly concluded that the best place to send him to continue his education would be the American school, which took Canada residents, and as a result was where they had expected to send his sister once she started showing signs of magical capability. Her grandparents were perfectly familiar with the routine. For a moment he thought that he might be seeing his parents less, which would be easily tolerable, but with the return of Voldemort, there was a growing possibility his father and by extension his mother were not safe in Britain. It would make sense for them to go as well, as his mother's career could easily move with her with the wonders of the Internet, and his father's career was literally inside a trunk, at least for the time being. It was worthy of note that he would be perfectly capable of being a guest lecturer at a prestigious tech school in Canada. They would do it legally, of course, going through the proper procedure of school transfer, as it would attract more undue attention otherwise.

The following morning, Anthony decided to go look around the city, given that he would probably not see it for a few years, if ever again, as the possibility of the Death Eaters winning was not entirely negligible. The chance he would run into a pair of them as Hermione had was, especially when there was serious doubt they were presently looking for him. Going to an arcade for which he had a fondness as he knew how to game the tokens in a few of the machines, he spotted a snarling smile, an odd expression to see in a crowd of Londoners, but as he thought of it, it was unlikely not to see something odd every time one walked down the street.

"Hi, Goldstein." The voice belonged to an old friend from the academy he had attended.

"Hi, Zhang. How's school?" he asked, remembering he went to some prestigious boy's school.

"It's boring. I can never get in enough of what I want to study. No distractions, either." The Chinese boy put a token in a boxing game. "How's your school?"

"There's a bit too much excitement, actually. I'm transferring," he said as he started up a machine. His old friend laughed, remembering Anthony complaining about boredom all the time. _If Hogwarts did anything for me, it fixed my priorities. I should never have complained about peace or security._

In the magical school, it seemed there was none of either, but there was plenty of another quality of life. He had come to enjoy the freedom, especially in the freedom of knowledge. He was allowed to peruse the Restricted Section as long as he had a note, which he was perfectly aware Madam Pince granted disproportionately to Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs. It really was a great wealth of knowledge, and he was grateful that Dumbledore had fought to preserve it, against the insistence of the Ministry, usually arguments of practicality against ideals. If they ever succeeded in getting the books, he would be glad for it, as there would be fewer variables, but he would also be glad to have read many of the books ahead of time.

The 8-bit characters moved around on the screen, lights appearing and disappearing to create a discrete motion path, which he expected would drive Zeno mad, given the opportunity. Alas, the forward flow of time meant that some conversations were simply not to be. He was having a good enough conversation with Zhang, though his mind was not truly in it, which was fine by both of them. It was relaxing to be able to zone out and just play something.

At long last he started to leave, in the middle of a discussion on immigration, a subject of interest for the other boy. 1992 saw a negative net migration in Britain, and from this there followed the argument that it would keep going down, until something else changed or the country was empty. There were those who argued that this was really only a temporary thing, and net migration would go back to being positive the following year, but if asked he would have advised most public figures to refrain from comment. Most of the parties seemed to agree that it was increasing, which was a detail underpinning their philosophies, whether they considered this to be a wind of fortune or not.

Thinking on how his new curriculum would be different from what he had learned, as he was technically immigrating to a new country, he decided not to lose sleep over it, since he was ahead in all of his coursework and could not convince himself the American school would be any more difficult. Despite Hermione's constant concerns, at least last year, he had consistently found that there was only so much good that worrying would do. The more he studied for any particular test, the more he got out of it, but each hour of studying was worth less than the one before it. Taking a pragmatic approach, it was best to spend his extra time researching rather than fight to get a ten out of ten where it would take an additional three hours to get there from a nine.

Going back home eventually the sky was dark and for a moment he was tempted to light his wand, but doubted that what he was currently doing would count as an emergency. For reasons unknown, he had to wait for a few minutes outside before the receptionist so much as responded. When at last she clicked the button to open the door, she did so without apology, where he would have guessed she would at least have a comment about his coming back so late. Anthony decided that he did not know whether the odd sense he had was a result of remembering the same woman behaving differently, or perhaps he had simply come to expect the usual sweetheart professionalism that servants usually displayed. The elevator up was in perfect order, which was absolutely no surprise to him, and he decided it was simply unreasonable to expect future oddities after one interaction that he found strange.

Reaching the room, he opened the door to find his mother bleeding to death on the floor.

There was no mistaking it; life was leaving her with every drop of bright red. The noise of the television set turned to an unregistered channel was almost deafening, and it seemed to phase through his mind as the only sound, his other thoughts halted. Darkened eyes turned to look at him, though they lacked the energy to show the final defeat his mother would suffer in her life. He realized he was screaming as he blindly ran over to her, a hand raising from the floor listlessly. Hit in the back with a knockback jinx, throwing him into a tumble, he learned only just too late that she was pointing in the direction of her attackers. Lying on the floor as his wand was magically removed from his coat, he stared up in disbelief at the men in black cloaks.

"I wasn't expecting a third." It was the voice of a younger man, though he could not see through the mask.

"He's their son, Amycus. I had thought he would stay at school," the other explained simply. In defiance of anything Anthony could have expected, he lowered himself to a squat, removing his mask to reveal the face of an old man. "I'm truly sorry you had to see this, boy. Your father is a traitor to magic, and your mother is a potential leak we had to plug. If you would come after me, I shall not but touch a hair on your head for twenty years from this day." Unable to look the old wizard in the eyes, his own slid to the other man sitting on top of a shaking trunk with what looked like a dozen locks. "Your father, however, will have to come with us."

The pair of killers left Anthony holding his dying mother, the breath of life gone from her.


	18. The Portrait of Neville Longbottom

Though Hannah had no intent to go home, as she still had to find some way of helping Hermione, there was no harm in taking a day to visit the insanity ward at Saint Mungo's. True to his word, Draco had delivered the painting to the room, though the Healers said nothing about Neville having taken to it at all. The confused face in the unfinished portrait stared down at the supine version of himself, unable to understand what was going on.

"Hi, Neville," the blonde witch started awkwardly, trying to act normal for his benefit.

"Hi, Hannah. Am I a painting?" he asked.

"I'm not sure how to answer that," she responded. "I mean, you painted yourself. So if you think about it, it's kind of like a piece of you. I suppose you could also think-" the portrait stared back at her.

"Well, are you talking to me or the painting?" he asked. _I'm not really sure._

"I think both? I'm sorry, I don't know. The Healers say the only piece of your mind left is the piece in the painting." Hannah briefly considered the possibility of the staff at Saint Mungo's lying to her, perhaps to make her feel better, perhaps because she was visiting too often, perhaps because she was bothering them...

"I guess," he muttered. _Maybe he's still himself. He was always honest._ The face in the portrait looked downcast. For a moment, she worried that the portrait of Neville was just what he thought of himself, which she thought was unfair. He was cleverer than he thought, he forgot things, but it really always seemed like he had potential. It was hard to say where he would end up or what he would eventually do, but she imagined he would at least go on to study Herbology, which seemed like a strong suit from what she knew.

The Healers thanked her for coming to visit, though one of them had been standing around watching the conversation take place after the initial exchange.

"I was only here to monitor the patient," she told the Hufflepuff witch as she was leaving. "We can't be certain how he will react to visitors." _That means he hasn't gotten that many, has he? Where are his friends?  
_

"Oh. Thank you for what you do," Hannah said absently as she left, watching out of the corner of her eye as the Healer turned to another, whispering something.

Returning to Hogwarts was a simple matter of Flooing to the local wizarding town, where Professor Sprout had volunteered to walk her back. Ever positive, the Herbology teacher reminded her that it would not be long before she could go to Hogsmeade without supervision.

"Why can't we go already? Is it dangerous?"

"Well, understand that you're outside the castle's protection. While Hogsmeade is not a dangerous place, no place is as safe as Hogwarts, even with the loss of a teacher and new friend." _Were they friends?_ Hannah reminded herself that it was really a silly notion that adults were not friends with each other, and one she did not know where she picked up. She did not notice any tears, though. "One of the main reasons is that younger students become lost easily and have yet to learn the responsibility necessary to return to school. We do not usually allow first-years to take part in Quidditch because they need to learn to focus on school, rather than flying off with wild dreams about going professional." Hannah nodded, reminding herself that her Head of House had always been famous for her work ethic. _It's possible she views everything that seems like a pipe dream as lazy. Well, that's unfair. It's also possible she played the game once and didn't like it. That would be unfair too, though._ Her lips pursed momentarily.

"But it's fine for second years? I can think of a few who want to play professionally already." An image of Zacharias came to mind.

"There are times when the rule itself does the trick, Hannah. I do not believe Mr. Hagrid could keep everyone out of the Forest if everyone had the same attitude toward rules as the Weasley twins. Fortunately, most students realize the rules are in place for their own benefit." _The rule has them thinking about why it was enacted. If nothing else, it at least has them consider whether or not it is worth following. Then they learn the behaviors that the rules encourage are good for them.  
_

That was the theory, anyway.

Hannah was aware that going back to school would put her back with Ron, but he was a friend to Neville, if one who neglected to visit him. Upset, she prompted him about it at breakfast while he was tearing through Eggs Benedict.

"I don't visit headstones, Hannah," he muttered, annoyed at a concern of his own, in all likelihood. She imagined he had offended someone else, since he was so good at it. "I don't expect my mates to stick around staring when I've gone brass monkeys."

"He's not dead, Ron," she contested. The comparison was questionable at best. She understood that he could no longer communicate, but it was not the same as being dead.

"He might as well be. He's lying down on a bed somewhere, not responding. Might as well lie in a proper grave." Hannah fell silent. _I suppose Ron might have a different idea of being alive than I do._ "I'm sorry about-"

"It's alright- maybe I'm just being silly-" _Like always-_ "-maybe I'm kidding myself into thinking I'm helping him." Her eyes drifted in the direction in the floor, though she was not using them to see.

"I don't know, you might be- look, I'm sorry about what I said _earlier_ about the Slytherins." he started. "I do think the Heir is a Slytherin, but I also think it's a bloke- and he's got to be a pure blood. See where that puts me?" She looked up. "I'm not saying the Slytherins are all killers. It's just more likely that the killer is a Slytherin than anyone else. That doesn't mean it's Malfoy- if you think about it, each one's almost certain to be innocent."

It was plain to Hannah that Ron most certainly had thought about it, but she was in no hurry to acknowledge it. _If you always suspect the Slytherins, how are they going to respond to that?_ Beyond a shadow of a doubt, she knew she was tired of students assuming that she was on board with the conspiracy in Hufflepuff, even when a fair few of the people who assumed that were members of her own House. _I suppose the older ones might be forgiven, since they can't tell the younger students apart. Well, mostly. Ernie likes to stand out._

She left her friend for the library, feeling a little guilty about judging him harshly. _I only considered one possible explanation for his behavior._ It seemed unfair, but she had other concerns. She needed to study, she needed to figure out what got Hermione- most importantly, she needed to make up for the sleep she had already lost. Having been led back to the dormitory by an annoyed Prefect the previous night, she did not have the chance to sleep in the mysterious room, which she would have preferred.

The following morning came quickly enough, sleeping in an unfamiliar bed.

As she finished breakfast in silence and got to her feet, there was a minor disturbance as the grounds keeper was talking to a pair of Hit Wizards at the head table. It appeared Dumbledore was trying to retain control over the situation, but the large man was bordering on making a scene. _No, stop, you're only making it worse- they'll drag you off in hand cuffs and leg cuffs and a big neck ring like in the old King Kong._ As if determined to see Hannah's nightmares come to life, one of them stunned Hagrid after he made a sudden movement. She found that Ron was right next to her as the small crowd of students formed, watching the odd display. _Of course they picked a time when everyone's gone home- well, everyone with a home on this island._ For the most part, the small amount of transfer students stayed at school over Christmas holiday. Seeing that his employee was being treated respectfully, Professor Dumbledore levitated the mountain of a wizard and three pairs of moving feet hurried outside, as if the spectacle could be mitigated at this point.

The castle seemed to wait with baited breath for some kind of explanation, unless somehow the executive decision was to wait for the rest of the students to return to avoid having to explain the same thing twice, which she imagined would be cumbersome. Things did not go as she imagined, however, as the Deputy Headmistress made the announcement that evening over supper that Mr. Rubeus Hagrid was being taken in on suspicion of being the Heir. Her eyes widened, but when she asked, Ron told her he was relatively sure the game keeper was a Slytherin, though he highly doubted he was responsible for any of what had happened.

"Well, 'least we know whoever reported him is involved," he decided. It looked like a real blow to him in some way, though she had been wrong about that sort of thing. As for the announcement, she decided it was likely that Professor McGonagall did not want idle rumor to spread before telling the students what happened, and by the time the rest of the students came back they would already know.

That night the two of them met in the mysterious room, the Gryffindor deeply sulking.

"What is it?" _I might be wrong about asking if it's Mr. Hagrid._

"My sister Ginny's been hanging around a Slytherin- Harper, I think. Can't figure out what's going on there." He waved a hand, looking off in the direction of the fireplace, where stockings were hanging. "I don't expect you to be worried about it, though." _That might be why he refrained from bringing it up earlier._

"I mean... it's okay, I guess. I'm an don't have brothers or sisters so I don't know what that's like. I imagine you really care for her if you-"

"I don't think Harper is the Heir," he explained, perhaps misunderstanding her intent. "He has an alibi." _I would have thought he would be above suspicion of murder for being a first-year._ Hannah shifted uncomfortably. She wondered if first-year boys really were capable of killing intent.

"Why did they take Mr. Hagrid? There has to be someone more likely-"

"When I was trying to follow Hermione's footprints yesterday, I saw Flitwick. He says Hagrid was arrested last time for the same crime. Dumbledore tried to get the charges dropped for lack of real evidence, but he's a Slytherin and there was no convincing anyone. They just decided to lock him up on conspiracy or obstruction or something- can't remember. There was something to do with an Acromantula he kept as a pet." Thinking back to the Deputy Headmistress addressing the students, Hannah remembered something about Salazar Slytherin supposedly having a monster he would have kept in the Chamber of Secrets. Despite testifying under Veritaserum that he did not know where the Chamber was, not now or fifty years ago, though he would really like to see whatever 'interesting creature' lurked within, Hagrid was not free from suspicion given that he was half-giant and quite possibly immune to the potion. The Headmaster had suggested having a scholar on the subject explain to them that Hagrid was susceptible to the potion, but the Department of Magical Law Enforcement had dismissed the idea as a conflict of interest and for some reason Professor Snape was absent. Though she had not told anyone, only part of what she knew came from the address to the students, the rest from a letter Susan had sent from home. "Worst bit was recently- Malfoy said that the way he got out of the school was right next to Hagrid's hut."

"So do we know who reported him?"

"I don't," Ron answered without elaboration. He rose to absently rifle through the multitude of presents laid out, the expression on his face odd to her. _Is he not familiar with this specific tradition?_ She was aware wizards had different ways of celebrating most things. _Or has he just not seen this many packages in one place?_ It was not as if there were only a few of them, which was more than she expected for a family with two children. About half of them were wrapped with pink or purple paper, and Hannah guessed those were for the girl, which seemed reasonable given that the alternative was writing her name on each one of them. The stockings also lacked names, which she imagined would be troublesome for Father Christmas. She pictured him looking around for a moment before deciding he had other houses to reach and if the family that lived in this one did not care to label their stockings, they should not be surprised to have to figure out whose gifts belong to whom.

"Who reported him last time?" she asked as the Gryffindor shook a package.

"Flitwick said his name was Tom Riddle. Clever bloke, real charmer- too bad he turned out to be You-Know-Who." Hannah might have gasped, but she contained herself. Whatever turned out to be true about the wizarding world, she could count on it being a surprise. The Hufflepuff supposed she should have expected he would have attended Hogwarts, and at one point or another had a name other than Voldemort. He definitely had to have a name other than You-Know-Who, since people had to know who at some point.

"Was he the real Heir of Slytherin?" she asked. It seemed obvious as she imagined a young Tom Riddle played by Al Pacino shouting at Salazar Slytherin, face conveniently obscured by the hood of his robe that he had always done everything he had asked. The hood would come down to reveal the visage of Marlon Brando, who insisted that Tom had forgotten the most essential-

"I don't know who else it could have been," Ron answered, visibly thinking about it. _I really have to stop that._ "Makes more sense than Hagrid, and he'd want to get people off his trail..."

"Who died?"

"Moaning Mytle, you know her." Hannah's hands tensed momentarily.

"Was she muggle-raised?"

"Flitwick thinks so, but he wasn't here. I didn't think to ask." He sighed. "Really wish Dumbledore were here, since he remembers it happening the first time." Hannah wondered if he were any closer to piecing together who the real Heir was, especially in light of what Riddle did since leaving Hogwarts _. There's no way he believes his own grounds keeper to be guilty, not after defending him twice. He has to know the real killer was Voldemort- why couldn't he prove it?_ "He's not even _said_ he believes Riddle was the killer. I mean, I know he believes he would have to prove it to send him to Azkaban for it, but why not just say what he believes?" Ron wondered aloud, as if reading her mind. Upon thinking about it, she decided it was unlikely that he knew Legilimency, and more likely that they were just thinking about the same thing.

"I don't know, perhaps he decided it was irrelevant after everything else Riddle did," she supposed. It was a complete conjecture, but the red haired wizard appeared to at least consider it. "I don't have any idea about after that, though. Has Professor Dumbledore been trying to see if he's _come back_ to Hogwarts?" she asked suddenly, remembering what happened only a few months ago. "He _can't_ be here- he-"

"Your guess is as good as mine. 'least we know what Hermione was doing in Myrtle's bathroom. She was trying to talk to her."

"Why? The ghost would have only confirmed what she had been thinking. Unless we find the Chamber, there's no hope of finding Slytherin's monster, much less trying to stop it." _The ghosts don't know where it is. If they knew, they would have told the teachers a long... They forgot. They forgot like they forget everything._ "Ron, the ghosts really only remember things from their lives. Something must have happened during Myrtle's life..." _-well, unless I'm just going too far on conjecture again._

"I've got an idea," he decided as he set down a wrapped gift and made to leave the mysterious room. Following uncertainly, she wondered if they had enough to report, or if they would really only be bothering the teachers with their speculation and the teachers would politely thank them and bid they 'run along now', before turning their expressions cold and discussing serious matters with serious people. The wizard led her down the corridor to the grand stairwell.

"You can't be thinking of going to the second floor!" Hannah accused, imagining the Gryffindor boy crushed under a giant cockatrice standing in for Slytherin's monster. "That's where Hermione was petrified."

"We can't just stay away," he countered, taking the stairs two at a time. _Well, I suppose when you've already thrown caution to the wind-_ The Hufflepuff followed him, still throwing her hands up at his turned back. "We need to find out where the Chamber is. I'm thinking maybe Myrtle knows, the Heir knows she knows, maybe even the monster knows- it doesn't matter, it's too much of a coincidence for her to be petrified in the same room where Moaning Myrtle died fifty years ago."

"Well, I'm not just going to let you run off by yourself-"

"It's kind of nice, actually, thank you. Hermione would never let me hear the end of it either."


	19. Myrtle's Washroom

Draco's memories were especially active as he took the stairs to the second floor.

Framing Lockhart had not gone as well as planned, but it had the intended secondary effect of getting someone off the Heir's back, whoever he was. His current conjecture was that the Defense teacher had done his homework well enough to find a prior conviction on the old gate keeper's record. The way his father put it, watching the oaf blubber about it was at least entertaining.

"Ah don't blame ye fer thinkin' ah did it," he had said. "Jus' worryin' fer those kids."

He had heard little from Nott, which was disappointing, but apparently Goyle at least put the Quaffle on Lockhart's end of the pitch, forcing him to defend himself. For some, a possible accusation was enough, and there was no way to prove it was not entirely manufactured. Crabbe was still in detention. Given that he had unwittingly helped the Dark Lord gain the Philosopher's Stone from the mirror, and there was no love for him even among Slytherin house, Draco considered publicly severing ties, using Goyle from then on to commune with Crabbe, the 'lone wolf', but given the fealty of the Crabbe family to House Malfoy, he doubted the ruse would work. _That's if neither one of them sabotages the secret outright._

The one thing that remained an object of confusion for him was the Chamber of Secrets itself. Given what he had unwittingly found last year, it was quite possible that was either the Chamber or something related, something else Salazar Slytherin left in the castle. It would not be surprising that the Dark Lord knew about it, and he could not entirely believe it was a coincidence that he chose that as a place to temporarily trap Draco. _He never had a desire to kill me. The curse he aimed at me would be something he can undo later. If he had no gratitude toward my father, he would have killed me outright.  
_

He took both Harper and Creevey with him as backup, the others engaged. Goyle and Nott were looking into the effects of unicorn blood as well as anything they could find about the Heir that had not already been discovered. By their reports, the library was full of Ravenclaws with the same intent. It was their nature to try and understand what was going on. _The one who has asked me already does. Pity the rest don't know when to consult an expert._

His conversation with Padma following the petrification of the mudblood was complicated, as he had anticipated. The Granger girl had been a friend of hers, and from what she implied, the mudblood had referred to him as if he had been a friend, though he supposed that mistake was easily made. It was possible for the muggle-adopted Ravenclaw to form attachments in the wizarding world, but these would be quickly if regretfully overridden by family ties and other friendships in the Muggle world should the decision become necessary. For that reason, she could never be his friend.

 _Draco, if a traitor and an enemy are before you, the traitor must die first. If you fall and the enemy lives, your allies will know him for a foe and avenge your death._

He ended up telling Padma that it was not for him to direct the Heir and it was likely the Granger girl was investigating his activities, making her an obvious target. The Heir's work was necessary for the purification of Hogwarts, and it would not do to have potential traitors undermining his actions for their eclectic Muggle mores.

He remembered the Indian witch countered his justification of mudblood deaths and petrifications as a necessary process of eliminating potential traitors, arguing, heatedly, that it would only turn more muggle-raised war orphans against them. He chose to explain that it was most likely they would only antagonize himself, the Heir, the Dark Lord, the Death Eaters, purists, pure-bloods, Slytherins, or some combination of thereof rather than the wizarding world entire. For this reason, they would not betray wizardkind until the cards were all on the table, at the eventual failure of Secrecy when they would be forced to take a side. At that point their betrayal would be a near certainty, though there would possibly be a few non-participants. Eliminating them quickly was not a guarantee that there would be no mudbloods fighting on the side of muggles at the eventual exposure of the wizarding world, but allowing them all to live was a guarantee that almost all of them would. The Blood Purists had for centuries insisted on the education of the young on the threat the muggles posed, some going so far as to insist on a ban of half-blood marriages, but their warnings had for centuries fallen on increasingly deaf ears.

It was a conversation that did not end as well as he would have liked, but one that ended about as well as it could have.

Draco reached the second floor girls' toilet and after a cursory glance around, opened the door.

"Malfoy? Bloody hell, you've brought friends," came a familiar voice greeting him. Ronald Weasley stood in the center of the room with a Hufflepuff girl he did not recognize.

"It appears I have a few more than you do, Weasley. Perhaps the Dark Lord will be inclined reduce that number even further before the Heir tosses you aside like the barking dog you are." A contraction of the blood traitor's pupils indicated he recognized Harper. _No matter._ Necessity reasoned that the expression that warranted a response belonged to the witch. Her face was mostly pointed down, but he could see her shake slightly as he moved to draw. _Might have touched a nerve-_

"Neville saved you!" she screamed in a shrill voice, Creevey breaking and running for it. _That boy will be straightened out the moment I next lay eyes on him._ "He saved you and this is what you do?! _Expelliarmus!_ " The Hufflepuff was spirited, but the spell hit Harper. Weasley's wand was out, but Draco cast at him with a full-body bind, which he deflected. _Damn- reflexes sharp as ever._ Harper ducked a knockback jinx to heave himself into the Gryffindor, but the motion was met with an unusually forceful knee to the face, which the first-year had been foolish enough to stick out in front of him. Draco deflected a pair of successive jinxes before freezing the witch with a body bind curse, causing her to start to fall forward. Trusting the moronic sentimentality of the red haired wizard to catch her, Draco aimed a knockback jinx at her feet as Harper picked himself up, grabbing blindly for Weasley's wand, which ended up knocked aside. The two of them fought as wild dogs, robes ripping and aggression met with aggression. _At least I could trust Harper not to fail me._ A jab to the first-year's eye gave Weasley the chance to grab the girl's wand and curse Draco, though he managed to deflect it as Harper got a hold of his wand arm.

At long last he used the body bind curse on the Gryffindor boy before kicking him in the abdomen.

"See, I told you we'd be enough. We needn't have even invited Creevey." The Malfoy heir rolled his eyes, pulling the boy aside as he cast the muffling charm Nott had shown him. It was not a perfect replication, but he had been using it often enough at the library to talk with the Ravenclaw girl.

"We succeeded here only because neither of them were thinking straight. Your friend will be thoroughly beaten for running and nearly costing us the duel by distracting us. You performed well enough without a wand, but you need to learn to deflect spells, which was possible for me in first year. How does Weasley know you?" he asked, getting to the heart of the matter.

"I don't know what you're-"

"Weasley knows you; he recognizes you from somewhere. You're going to tell me how."

"I don't know- I've seen him maybe once or-"

"You will find out. Killing him now is not possible for me, and as a result I need to know what weaknesses he possesses," Draco insisted. He was not the same foolish boy he had been, of that he could be perfectly certain. _I shall not be rendered helpless again, not even by the Dark Lord, not when I might take hold of my fate._

"Very well, Malfoy. I shall learn to block spells and learn about the blood traitor, since that's so important to you." Without anything better to do, the proper Slytherin might have struck him across the face for being insubordinate, but he had not been so different the previous year. Held to his standard, Harper was progressing well enough. _At the same time, he cannot be allowed to realize it._ "Now why don't we return to our original purpose?"

Draco turned away and looked over the room, aware that the prisoners were still conscious, the Gryffindor probably still feeling the pain of being kicked in the stomach. If the Hufflepuff could show emotion, she might have communicated failure. The blood traitor seemed numb to such worries, always pressing himself harder with that poor man's work ethic. For a moment the blonde wizard almost envied his carefree nature, knowing nothing of the horror waiting to devour the wizarding world, his family, in ignorance, reproducing entirely too much, even for the countryside. He stepped over him and decided he would let the boy keep his folly, and he would keep his pride.

The central pillar had a distinctive way of opening that was unlike a magical disassembly. He had seen it himself.

"Look for anything of use- inscription, markings-"

"This is the way to the Chamber?"

"One of them. The other is a well, magically sealed after I was forced to recount what happened last year. It was concluded the school's plumbing was siphoning from the same source, or formerly did so, and the well was a security risk."

"Did plugging the well do anything?" Harper asked as he peered under a sink. The mirror had an odd look to it, but what he noticed were the taps, which had a serpentine design, quite obvious when directly observed, but he imagined that for years it had simply been part of the scenery, never noticed, never questioned. _That must have been how no one noticed it the past fifty years or so- more importantly, that was how I never noticed it._

"Whatever magic worked on the well might have woken up Slytherin's Monster," he supposed. It was not entirely a conjecture, nor entirely a lie. _Architecture plays a role in warding. Salazar would have arranged the tunnels in a spell-form, meaning if one of them were stoppered, the warding could be partially or entirely compromised._

"I found something," the younger wizard muttered. Taking a look, Draco decided the tap was decidedly serpentine, down to the piercing eyes. _Slytherin could have designed this room, but in his day there was no running water. The more likely conclusion is that someone placed this here out of respect for our greatest founder._

"We need to know when these fixtures were installed and by whom. I suggest you get Nott on it if his leads fail to yield." _That we have the nonmagical adaptation is irksome enough; I shall not suffer reading about them. It is a pity the school could not conceive of how to accomplish the feat of washing the hands of children by other means, perhaps a water charm would suffice if they know nothing of decontamination wards._

The Lord Malfoy had explained a trifle of how the Hogwarts curriculum was being dulled for the slower students, though a more sinister explanation was also possible. In order to subdue the Ancient Houses, the Ministry would do well to ensure that each generation was less magically capable than the last, until the graduating class was only capable of what was absolutely necessary for work. He found himself longing for an age he never knew, a time when lords and ladies could study the higher magicks to their hearts' content while the rabble figured out the minimum they needed to know for their ignorantly contented purposes.

 _Be it a time gone by, it may yet be a time come again._

Draco would have liked to levitate the bound prisoners down the hole, but the blasting curse was not having the same effect it did the previous year. _The Dark Lord must have sealed the entrance well, for the enchantment to have lasted this long. No less is expected._ Temporarily, he settled for notifying Professor Snape, who could alter their memories if need be.

With Harper gone, he went to find the Head of House in the dungeons, hoping he could shed some light on the subject of the taps in addition to the matter about the blood traitor and his little girlfriend. Their situation irked him, now that he thought of it. Properly, Abbot blood would not be wasted on a Weasley, though if the vessel was willing there was no hope for her. The world was filled with pitiful men and women with complicit standards, and he should not have imagined Hogwarts to be any different. His mother had once commented on her fortune to have a son and not a daughter, since the line of Malfoy would continue if not the line of Black, but there were times when she wished she could have taught a girl all the secrets and wiles she knew. Draco was beginning to suspect that in addition to the tricks up her sleeve, there were tricks elsewhere and his fanciful sister would still have to wait a while before learning those.

The office of the Potions master was as dour as he remembered it, forcing himself not to check the ceiling as he entered. The same trick would not work twice on him, but it would be for his powers of observation, not his ability to take obvious, fearful precautions.

"Good day," Professor Snape started without looking up. The young Slytherin's expression brightened somewhat at the good sign. "We do not conduct business at Hogwarts." he continued.

"Professor, it's a disciplinary matter," Draco responded, keeping the sudden disappointment out of his voice.

"We do not conduct business at Hogwarts," he repeated.

"Professor, I was attacked."

"We do not conduct business at Hogwarts," Professor Snape rejoined, continuing to insult him. Deciding he would not get anything out of the overly professional Death Eater, though it was probably for the best, he decided to set Goyle to it when next he was available. The boy was not terribly clever or imaginative, but he could find something to do with the prisoners.

Unexpectedly, he was stopped by the Deputy Headmistress.

"Mr. Malfoy- a word, if you please." His mind was racing with wonder and concern- there was no one who could escape full-body-binds that easily... not without help. _I should have known there would be others behind them. Their sentimentality and general incompetence would never permit them to travel alone. The Gryffindors are no better._

"It has come to my attention that a duplicate of mine punished you more harshly than is standard. As this was a Ministry overreach, be aware that the detention you were assigned and your disobedience have been retroactively discounted," she started, surprising him again. He supposed Pucey's arguments that she was a fair teacher, however tough she was, were not entirely unfounded. He supposed it suited her to contradict the treatment his own Head of House gave students.

"I believe my father insisted that my record be cleared."

"It has been cleared. If, however, you step out of line again, the same exception will not be made." Draco was beginning to suspect the purpose of engaging him in private conversation in an empty classroom.

"Then my record has not been cleared and Professor Dumbledore has gone against his word," he concluded. "You are being unfair to suspect me if I do not have a record. My father will hear about this."

"Of that I have little doubt, what with the way he seems to hang on your every word," Professor McGonagall responded, skirting around insulting the Lord Malfoy. "All the same, we members of Hogwarts staff are allowed to make our judgments, prejudicial though they may be." His eyes narrowed as he concluded she was talking about the Potions master, though ultimately he let it by for the time being. If teachers were allowed to have favorite students, they were allowed to have least favorite students, and in truth if she wished she would monitor him whether it was honest or not. _I can only imagine the amount of first-years reporting me as a suspicious character._

Leaving her with a curt nod, he found Goyle in a corridor near the library, a few books sticking out of his bag. It would take him an age to read so much as one, so in a way it was a commendable effort. He asked the large boy to find Creevey and beat him, having abandoned the idea of detaining the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff. As for his plans in the library, he had a Ravenclaw to meet.

To his moderate amusement, it was not the one he had expected.

"Goldstein," he muttered, having met the boy previously. _What is he doing here, staring at me and not at books? Whatever he wants, he had better seek it out soon._

"Malfoy," the other student muttered, not breaking eye contact as he followed Draco to the counter, then to a quiet corner where he usually expected Padma. " _Locomotor Mortis,_ " the boy cast quietly as he sat, preventing him from rising. He was then bound in place by a simple _petrificus_ , freezing his posture. He could not quite look up at the Ravenclaw, but the boy lowered himself. "You'll have to forgive me, but I believe it's the least comfortable way to be frozen." Unable to move even his eyes, he had no idea if anyone was watching what was going on, but sooner or later his perfect stillness would look suspicious. The wizard put a massive tome in front of him, presumably with a featherlight charm applied already.

 _My record may not have been cleared, but I'd like to know what exactly I did to you._


	20. Saved by Susan

Scabbers had scurried off somewhere, though that was fair since his protector had been immobilized.

Ron was not surprised when a distressed looking girl came into the washroom, stared at them for a few seconds before bringing her fellow Hufflepuff to her feet, then him. Handing Hannah's wand back, he listened to the girls talk for a moment as he went to retrieve his own, but he was not listening to the quiet conversation. What had him wondering was the mention of Smith's given name. _Barely even heard of him. What's he doing watching Malfoy?_

Apparently the boy had gotten wind of the Slytherin's plans before dropping Susan a hint, refusing to go with her as it was a girls' loo, after all. He did not say how he knew other than that the blond prat had been talking about it, and his time to get what was coming to him was due. The pair of witches was noticeably concerned about his change in behavior; he had not been the same since they lost Justin. _Another Puff bloke I barely know._

It was not as if he did not desire to have friends, it was just that he seemed to be constantly overflowing with bad luck, enough that he could hardly blame most people for not wanting to be around him. Even after he was cleared of his involvement and his official punishments, the unofficial punishment of being seen as a troublemaker persisted. In truth, there were times it seemed like it was some sort of dream where he would wake up and not be involved again.

"What do we do about this?" Hannah asked him. _Why she's asking me I'll never know._

"What?"

"Zacharais," she said as if it were obvious.

"I don't know him. Honestly if he's... scared or something, that's his business. Prob'ly prefers to be left out of it." The other two seemed to accept his answer, though he reckoned it was not what they wanted. _Well how the bloody hell am I supposed to know?_

"Okay, what do we do about... this, then?" she asked.

"Malfoy saved us a few seconds. We can't just blast our way into the Chamber, if that's what it is down there. I figure if You-know-who knows about it, it has to be something."

"Well, can't we go to Professor Dumbledore and have him open it and look around?" Susan asked, as if having waited her turn. _Might be they expect me to have all the answers 'cause Gryffindors always seem to take charge, even if you don't want them to._ He was aware of the reality of House stereotypes, but it felt strangely like a sin against Hermione to believe in them, or believe in them in such a way that he was not aware of them. _Hermione- no matter what, we have to save her._

"I guess," he responded. "We have enough- if Malfoy was interested in this place- and he's been down there, so he has to have some idea. No surprise he'd want some way into the Chamber of Secrets." _He can't well be a proper Slytherin without reading them._

The three of them made an uncertain progress out of the room, Ron clenching his wand in anticipation of being told that the Headmaster was out, already seeing someone, or he was very busy for reasons he would not be told at all. What felt equally likely was the chance that someone would simply jump out of nowhere and attack him. _I've got my wand out for once, though, so it probably won't happen. Really I'll just run into Snape and he'll dock a few points for waving it around like a madman._

Continuing his assumed role as temporary leader, he took the stairs while keeping an eye out in all directions, though Hannah and Susan were no slouches when it came to looking for warning signs.

"If we get there in one piece I'll eat my socks," he muttered inaudibly, as if daring reality to get a move on and throw whatever trouble awaited him with full force, when he was ready for it. Fighting the urge to loose a curse behind them as they made it to the appropriate floor, they reached the office without a problem. _I suppose it'll have to be the knitted ones._

"Acid pops?" Hannah guessed. _Must've learned at some point from Hermione._

"Fizzing Whizzbees." The gargoyle failed to move. _I'm not eating my bloody socks if we can't get into the office after making it all the way here._

"Jelly Slugs? Bertie Botts? Peppermint Toad? Pumpkin Pasty? Sugar Mice?" Hannah thought for a moment, her friend staring at her. "Mars bars?" she asked uncertainly. The guardian moved and Ron resolved to get in before it could change its mind.

"How did you guess that?" Susan asked, still in shock. He peered into the room before entering, aware it was impolite.

"Well, I figured it might be a Muggle sweet. He likes those too," Hannah responded.

"Yes, but there must be millions." The Gryffindor entered the empty room with the debating witches in tow, scanning it as if something would tell him where Dumbledore went.

"I know. I guess we're lucky I got it early on," the blonde responded, annoying the brunette somewhat. _I reckon she has to realize it at this point. She's not thick._ A strange bird waited on a golden perch.

"So your plan back there was to name every confectionery in the entire world-"

"Shut it," Ron muttered as the bird went up in flames. Again bearing the responsibility of poking the ashes with his wand, figuring it for a phoenix, he found a little chick, black and coughing slightly. "Wherever he went he didn't take his bird with him," he decided, half-hoping there was still a way of getting out of eating his socks. Even if he could get the knitted ones apart-

"Excuse me for being momentarily unavailable, Mr. Weasley," Professor Dumbledore said, appearing at the top of the stairs as if he had been there the entire time. "I forget from time to time that my duties as Headmaster are not as important as my ability to respond to the concerns of my students. It must be important for you to neglect to knock."

Ron instantly felt awful, and it looked like Hannah and Susan were no better. The former was staring straight ahead, the latter at her feet.

"I'm sorry, sir. This _is_ important. I was worried there might be someone in here waiting to attack us," he explained, the old warlock's eyes settling momentarily on a spot of blood on his head where he had hit the ground.

"My door is open, Ronald, Hannah, and Susan," he said quietly. "I expect to be treated with a fraction of the respect I have shown you and your concerns." He waved a hand, indicating he would not hold it against them long. _He's a teacher- first, last, and always._

"I'm sorry too, sir," Hannah said. It appeared Susan was not ready to speak. "Malfoy attacked us in... on the second floor. He had me petrified for I don't know how long before Susan rescued me." The blue eyes stared directly at her as though Ron were not in the room.

"I understand the procedure for discipline works through Heads of Houses. Unauthorized dueling is not permitted, but you are expected to practice magic at Hogwarts and if no one is harmed, members of the staff have been known to forgive the offense," he explained, likely referring to why Snape never seemed to punish his own students. "It is up to their judgement," he concluded, implying sufficient reason had not been presented as to why his own needed to be considered.

"Well, sir, we came here because we think Malfoy knows about the Chamber of Secrets," Susan started. "It's the place where he was trapped before- we thought it was just a bunch of pipes, but there's really something down there. He can't get in, though." The conclusion was more than easy enough for the ancient wizard to draw.

"Slytherin's monster has been moving around through the plumbing. Rubeus will know more..." he muttered mostly to himself as he raised his wand.

"You're getting Hagrid?" Susan asked, uncertain.

"I need Mr. Hagrid and Professor Snape. I would trust either with my life."

Albus Dumbledore was gone.

"I thought you couldn't Apparate in Hogwarts?" Hannah commented as if it were a question. _I thought you were supposed to say goodbye or something if you were just going to disappear. Then again, I was meant to knock._

"Wherever he's going, he's not taking us with him," Ron muttered. "Doesn't mean I won't follow."

"Wait, he doesn't need our help," Susan interjected. "Where are you going?"

"The monster has some way of getting outside. That means there's some way of getting in, big enough for a monster. I saw Death Eaters outside a while back- this has to be some kind of master plan," he explained as they took the stairs. "I don't think Dumbledore needs my help. I really hope he doesn't. Trouble is, he's only one wizard," he continued cryptically, not really wanting to explain. _Hannah's- spirited, but I don't know about Susan._ Not for the first time, he found himself wishing he had Neville or Hermione at his side. "He can't be in two places at once."

"You think Death Eaters are going attack us now?" Hannah asked, putting it together a little too quickly.

"I don't know, but they might," he responded as he glanced out a window, seeing nothing of use. " _Alohamora,_ " he cast, unlocking a broom closet. _Apparently, Filch doesn't really like that we can just get into these all the time. Color me surprised._

"Well, we can get the Department on it."

"You can't just Apparate straight from London to Hogwarts, they don't know where it is exactly. They'd have to go to Hogsmeade, and that's if we can get them to help us." _It's an opportunity to get her out of the way._ "Tell you what, go Floo your aunt and go to the village to meet them."

"What about us?" Hannah asked, her eyes moving rapidly.

"Get the Hufflepuffs- the mad ones- tell them that Death Eaters are coming in through Myrtle's washroom. I'm going ahead- if I see Dean or anyone on the way, I'll get him to help," he promised.

"You- you can't put all this on yourself-" the girl started, her voice chasing him down the stairs as she followed him. "A few weeks ago you were just looking after your sister... and a rat. What are you doing laying traps for Death Eaters and their minions?"

"I'm fighting," he answered, at a loss for the words to properly explain himself, gesturing meaninglessly with the broom in his hand. "I don't know what I'm doing, but I can't sit still; I'll go mad. What am I meant to do, run? I might make it in Australia, but if the Death Eaters take Britain they'll find me there. We're blood traitors, the lot of us- my family fought them; if they win, I die." He took a deep breath. "I can't just stay out of it," he answered honestly. Heaving himself onto the broom, he took the fast way down the stairs, leaving Hannah to make the decision on her own. Students watching him fly in flagrant violation of the rules shouted at him as he swooped just above their heads, ignoring them rather than being delayed. Perhaps they would follow him and help, but he doubted it. _Can't see Dean anywhere- if Hannah gets Ernie, Seamus'll come with him. It's a hope on a hope, but maybe Dean comes too. Maybe he believes her._

Making a momentary detour, he scanned the stair and what he could see from each level as the Hufflepuff ran off. As he looked for potential allies and saw none, he envied Dumbledore's ability to simply be anywhere he wanted at any given moment. Peering down the final corridor as he decided to call it and fly for the second floor, he imagined the party of three had already been assembled.

Reaching Myrtle's washroom and casting the anti-unlocking charm on the door, there were a handful of students still shouting at him, though they could do that all they liked as far as he was concerned. _The charm won't slow them down- it'll only make them blast the door open. Here's hoping that enough of the students will respond to that.  
_

As he flew out the nearest exit, it seemed to him he had underestimated the time to pass before the attack took place, though perhaps he should have expected his efforts to seal the door would not exactly line up with Death Eaters attempting to break in. _This gives me a moment to get outside._

The grounds looked traitorously normal, though he suspected the absence of smoke rising from the hut near the wood meant that Hagrid had already left with Dumbledore and Snape. He had no idea what they meant to do, though most likely the Headmaster had pieced together the entrance to the Chamber, and for some reason decided he most likely needed a Slytherin or two. From what Malfoy had been coerced into describing, the well from which he had surfaced was the one near Hagrid's hut, though he wondered where the huge man was getting his water if the well had been stoppered. Officially, he wasn't allowed to use magic, so he guessed there was some other well somewhere nearby. In any event, the party of three was most likely going to enter through the washroom. _Probably have no trouble undoing the charm from that side- hope they reapply it if they didn't go through before I got there._

Flying out to the edge of the wood and casting the footprint-revealing charm Hermione had shown him, he found there were too many trails to follow, too many different directions. _I need a lead. I need to get closer._ Gulping, he forced himself to fly closer to the place where he thought he had seen the line of Death Eaters, though he found his memories unreliable all of a sudden. _Where were they, anyway- couldn't have been far from the lake..._ Thinking with a start that he would see the same curse fly by as he did before, his knuckles went white as he approached, though he saw no one there. _Either Malfoy or the Heir hasn't notified them yet, or they're somewhere else. They'll have to get here, though, they have to keep Dumbledore from killing the Heir, the monster, or both. If nothing else, it's the perfect time to attack.  
_

Not far into the trees he saw a well with a bucket hanging down from it. Ordinarily he would think nothing of the Muggle artefact, but at this particular moment the white of his knuckles seemed to travel up his arms. _Malfoy wasn't under Veritaserum.  
_

Fighting the urge to flee, he cast a half dozen cutters at a nearby tree, hoping to fell the bloody thing and get it to collapse the well. The cutters failing to do anything, he cast the sparking explosive, knowing a fire charm would do more harm than good and forgetting the incantation anyway. _Hermione would know what to do here._

" _Aguamenti!_ " he shouted, though the high-level charm failed. _Should've guessed-_ " _Confringo!_ " he shouted again, this time pointing at the base of the well, where he hoped to have loosened a stone or two. _Can't do anything- nothing I do works-_ panicking, he flew to the Quidditch pitch as quickly as he dared push the broom. _Bludgers- might cause a distraction for a moment or two- can't think of anything else._

Though his mind raced through every potion he knew or thought he knew, there were none that had applications as traps. In any case, he possessed none save a few simple ones in his schoolbag in the event that he needed them, but none of them would help.

Reaching the pitch as he felt the broom die a little, he found Fred and George taking to an evening practice with the Chaser girls, looking decidedly interrupted by the appearance of their youngest brother. _Bloody hell, now I need_ their _help- just when I thought it couldn't get any worse.  
_

"It appears we have a lost second year- anyone recognize him, garish red hair, looks like a ragamuffin..." Fred's impression trailed off as he found he was more than sufficiently amusing his teammates. It was an insult to himself as much as Ron, though the latter felt no need to comment on it.

"The Chamber has been opened," he stated clearly, not generating a response. _Reckon they've told the witches I'm inclined to make up stories._

"What's that now, dear brother? Can't think of any other place to look for your rat?" Two of the Chasers laughed at George's gaff, though the one holding the Quaffle had the decency to turn away first. He grinned before affably smacking a Bludger away.

" _Flippendo!_ " he shouted, pointing at the black ball, meaning to get it to chase him. Streaking off on the ancient broom with the piece of equipment in tow, he found he had to duck the occasional lunge the Bludger would make in his direction as it chased him. Hitting it again to keep it from selecting a new target; he found in moments he was dodging more than just the violent ball.

 _At least they're following me._ He swooped low to avoid a red burst of spellfire, containing his panic.


	21. Flight of the Ravenclaw

Anthony looked up from his books as Smith entered the library, watching him keep his heavy breathing down to avoid the vulpine scrutiny of Madam Pince. _He's been sprinting- why?_

As the Hufflepuff boy slumped down next to him at the table where a petrified Draco Malfoy was sitting, by all appearances reading, he glanced with a confused look before giving up on the query he was about to ask.

"Hannah's been telling everyone the Chamber of Secrets is open and the Death Eaters are going to come through it." Anthony might have responded with an amused smile, but he was more frustrated than anything else.

"Of course it's Hannah," he started. "It could have been anyone else, and people would have believed her, but it just had to be Hannah."

"You think she's telling the truth?" Smith asked.

"I know they're active. I know they're targeting students." He grimaced involuntarily. "I know the Chamber is open."

"Well, I believed her, I just wanted to know if you did. What else have you heard from your friend?"

"Not a lot- I had a message from him through that girl- what's her name, red hair, shorter..." the Hufflepuff failed to refresh his memory, probably in the same boat. "Says there's someone in Slytherin who can speak to snakes."

"This is the first-year Slytherin."

"He's probably not lying. There are all sorts of esoteric types of magic in the world," Anthony explained from personal experience. "The most likely explanation is that it was imported from somewhere like India a long time ago." Smith seemed to more or less accept the idea. It was a commonly acknowledged fact that the subcontinent had a longer magical history than Britain, or at least a longer recorded one. There was some point to looking into Druidic lore, he imagined, but it was unknown to him.

"He also said the monster was getting around in the plumbing," the Hufflepuff remembered. Both of them looked at Malfoy a moment, as though he might develop a look of shock, but his face was, as always, placid. _It's that stiff upper lip of his- Had he shown surprise when I cast the leg locker, someone might have noticed his expression by now._

"We should have figured it would be a snake of some sort. The probability of Salazar Slytherin using anything other than a basilisk or a cockatrice was low in the beginning. Your friend Susan was barking up the wrong tree with the werewolf sneaking around the castle in human form."

"I think she stole that one from Hannah."

As he turned another page in the book he was reading, doing his best to keep on top of coursework, he decided it was quite possible the boy voluntarily sitting with him lacked friends in his own House, at least of the male persuasion. Terry Boot of his own year had become a companion some time after Hermione was petrified, and Anthony had been grateful for the change in perspective.

"Do you know anyone in the conspiracy?" he asked.

"No. Only reason I didn't go after Hannah; the rest of them would have made me. Electrum would have, at least."

"Tell me about him," Anthony requested. _I have nothing better to do at this point. If the school falls, it will not be because I didn't fight for it._

"His real name is Cadwallader. Real nonentity until last year, with Ebony and all that, plays Beater for the House team." _Beaters are seen as support players, while the Seeker gets all the attention.  
_

"What does he want?"

"I couldn't wrap my head around it at first," Smith started, staring off into space a moment. "He seems to... genuinely want to protect everyone."

The idea lingered in the air for a moment as the Ravenclaw considered it, wondering how the ambitious idea did not land him in Slytherin, unless he developed it later, or it required an extraordinary amount of hard work to implement. He doubted the hat placed much stock in personal preference.

"That does sound like a ton of work. What does he mean to do, nationalize Hogwarts with Aurors walking the halls?"

"I honestly don't know. The trick of it is he always knows more of the plan than you do, probably something Ebony taught him," the Hufflepuff answered. "What are we going to do with him?" he asked, indicating the immobilized boy.

"I suppose if we left him like this he'd only tell someone eventually. I had intended to use him as a hostage, but that plan has a good chance of falling through if the Death Eaters take the castle. The castle has so many secrets, so much hidden knowledge I'd exploit with the opportunity. They'd have him back from me, wherever I put him, and that would be the end of us."

"We could toss him into the gap," Smith suggested. It appeared the boy's cowardice had progressed even further, but Anthony refrained from comment. It was objectively a viable idea, and most likely it minimized risk. _I was hoping to get more out of capturing the Malfoy scion than a bit of petty revenge. Fortunately, there's another option._

"Given what you know, that's what I would have done," the Ravenclaw wizard started. "I've been looking into a few things in the library since Winter holiday, and I have a better idea."

The other boy looked around before asking what it was, the yellow trim of his robes fluttering only slightly as he turned.

"It's an enchantment applied to the soul."

"Sounds complicated."

"It is, but I've been reading about it for weeks. It's one of the greatest achievements of the Roman empire." Pioneers in the Western magicks that shaped Europe, the Romans had developed many of the higher arts in enchantment before the knowledge was lost at the fall. The decadence of the empire had been responsible for the loss of influence, and the subsequent combative destruction at the hands of Germanic Rune Meisters had dealt the final blow, but the enchantments on Roman libraries had allowed for the rediscovery of the scrolls by later wizards. Presently, as under Louis XIV, the French saw themselves as the inheritors of the magicks and might of Rome.

"How does it work?" Smith asked.

"The book says it leaves an irremovable mark on the skin. From what I can tell, it gives me a permanent magical connection. If he ever causes any one of us trouble, we could really put him in a world of pain."

"We can't still use him as a hostage?" _It's a reasonable question._

"I doubt they would call off the invasion just for him. The trouble with Death Eaters is that you can't trust any one of them to act rationally- they're all manipulated by the boss." In his version of the plan, they would have to give the boy back, but ultimately the two of them, well the four of them if the other two came, would split. Canada and Australia were obvious choices, and in the event that Malfoy went after them himself, that was where he would look. America or possibly Israel would make the most sense for him, but both were similarly obvious, especially if anyone knew him to be the brains of the operation. _That's something even this idiot would guess._ He had asked his friend to look into English speaking countries around the world and at the end of a long time of contemplation he had settled on Liberia. _I expect the four of us to stand out well enough, but they would never seek us out._

There was a crashing sound that could likely only be heard in the silence of the library.

"Deal with it. Keep anyone from getting in here," Anthony muttered as he waved his wand over the Slytherin. " _Signum Animi_ " he started, moving the boy's collar to see a deep red mark forming. _That's the enchantment- given time, I could make a proper Roman Eagle. Alas, I have too little time and too much taste._

Smith seemed to be casting spells in the background, sealing the door to keep as many students as possible from escaping. Fortunately, the librarian seemed to be on board with it, though his mind was focused on the book he had stolen from the Restricted Section. _We're going to have to get out of here the moment we're done._ Sealing the enchantment with a simple somatic transfiguration, he imagined the mark seeping down to Malfoy's bones, reminding himself it was no worse than his sort deserved. The potion would come last, though in truth that was a misnomer, the active magical component was an enchantment applied to the liquid. He had been inspired by the blood magic Professor Snape had reportedly performed to save the Hufflepuff, Justin something, though apparently this was a different matter.

A green flare of spellfire through an enchanted window caught his attention, and apparently he was not alone in this regard.

The regulars recognized it instantly as a killing curse, though even some of those cramming for tests shared in the subsequent panic. Anthony might have sighed, but he had another purpose for the air moving up from his lungs.

"Well, look's like it's that time anyway." He uncorked the phial. "Down the hatch, Draco." As he poured the solution down the throat of his hostage, he irrationally detected panic in the Slytherin's eyes before turning his attention to Smith, who was finding more and more students inclined to reinforce the door. Shield charms and transfigurations had made a mess of it, and he doubted he would get out, though that was some time in coming. He nodded in the Hufflepuff's direction.

"We're leaving?"

"We're raiding the Restricted Section- then we're leaving," Anthony explained as he kicked open a chest from under the table. Like his father's it was charmed, but the purpose would be in carrying books. He had no intention of getting in there himself.

"The portkey's expired," the other boy muttered. _Shame- these things seem to have a half-life on them or something. To think of what I had to invest getting it off the Weasley twins._

"We'll have to get out another way," he obviated as he used the levitation charm on the stack of books already on the table. Smith picked up the trunk, finding it had already been charmed to be featherlight as he carried it to the appropriate section of the library. The first-year had given them guidelines on what they needed, and what would be available elsewhere.

"Where's your friend?"

"His neck of the woods, getting potion ingredients. It was clever of him to get the trunks ahead of time, though I suspect he likes taking the girl to London." The Hufflepuff chuckled as he worked, not stopping a moment. He was a regular ingrate, though it seemed he was at least willing to put in the legwork when under proper leadership. Airy ideals did not seem to work on him, which suited the Ravenclaw well enough.

"We should have brought more witches," he commented retrospectively. Anthony snorted. They heard a scream in the distance, and it sounded like a student begging to be let into the library. "They're going to fall for that, aren't they?"

"I expect so. We get as many as we can, then we shrink the trunk and go." _The others will be in London by now. It's not a safe place, but it's a good place to find international portkeys when you need one._

"Will the others wait for us?" the other boy asked as the door opened quickly, admitting the students before closing again, though the shield charms would have to be reapplied.

"They might." _I'd be disappointed if they did._ "It's not part of the plan. You have the powder?" Smith nodded as the door opened yet again to admit still more students, at least one of whom, if his arithmancy was correct, had to be a Death Eater in disguise.

Anthony's arithmancy was always correct.

They had already discussed the possibility of having to fight, which was why the Hufflepuff had been learning a simple shield charm, which was effective enough for most attacks and therefore the most likely to be useful. Pushing past the scared students entering to get out, Smith cast a shield charm, making it look like he was covering for the others, though his and the Ravenclaw's exodus quickly revealed they had something else in mind, to the dismay of the older students shouting at the pair of second-years. There were times when he wondered why none of them had come to the same conclusion he had, that Hogwarts ultimately had to be abandoned, but he supposed their parents had all decided that the school was safe enough, so it was possible stupid was in their blood. _But it's more likely that they're too focused on what has happened to realize what most likely will happen._

Avoiding an unidentifiable wizard in dark robes, he decided there was no time to go over the incorrect risk analysis that people must be using. He sent a cutter out ahead of the other boy's shield, an ineffectual deterrent, but a functional distraction. Sprinting around a corner, they lost the man and vaulted over what looked to be a corpse, but there was no time to check. An explosion could be heard on the upper levels.

"We can't go up there!" Smith shouted, scanning the corridor.

"Find a broom- we'll get above it," Anthony responded, nearly having to repeat himself. The other boy had hardly experienced anything like this, meaning his reaction times would be cut. _I'll probably have to repeat myself, but at least he can cast a shield charm._ The nearest broom closet had already been raided. "Okay, we've checked that one, let's go," he encouraged, the Hufflepuff searching more thoroughly than necessary, most likely out of fear. Another explosion from the upper levels supported Smith's fearful suspicion, sending a visible shiver down his spine as the Ravenclaw nearly dragged him out, sprinting to the stairwell. Catching sight of a discarded broomstick on the ground, the pair of them ran for it, though a cloaked figure on a broom flew into the corridor, sending curses in every direction. Heaving himself out of the way as another shield charm went up, the flier suddenly seemed fixated on them, firing off leg-lockers for some reason. _Diving for the broom is out of the question.  
_

Casting a body-bind as Smith absorbed most of the spellfire, he missed and cast again, though not only did he find the incantation a bit of a mouthful, but that curses in general were slower getting off. Fortunately the second one landed, which confused him for a moment until he approached as the Hufflepuff jumped on the opportunity and knocked the frozen flier from his broomstick, which he retrieved. Removing the hood out of an insatiable curiosity revealed the face of Victor Crabbe.

"He your friend?"

"No," Anthony answered, just as efficiently. Seizing the other broom, he made an attempt to break the nearest window with a killing curse, but the spell was beyond his reach. Getting onto the broom, the two of them made their way up, not hearing any explosions until they were past it. Uselessly staring down, the other boy ascertained a few details about what was going on at the bottom.

"They're split up by House," he explained as they reached the exit, which he discovered had been sealed. _Of course- they had students working with them, so they sealed the doors ahead of time._ "Probably can't trust the Slytherins at this point." The Hufflepuff flew to another exit as he spoke, though this was a nearby window which he broke by striking it, dying enchantments flickering in red and yellow. _I suppose the school should have thought of that.  
_

" _Confringo!_ " The blasting curse did away with the rest of the window and the pair of them were out of it, beholding the battle below as they climbed. There were only a few dark robes loosing killing curses, but only a few people willing and able to fight them. Bodies lay strewn about across the ground, though his guess was that not many were dead. _They're none of my concern._

What concerned him was directly above.

Smith was shielding to avoid an enormous, thrashing herptile with emerald scales, involuntarily levitated into the air.

"GO AROUND!" Anthony shouted through the wind of the updraft, swerving to avoid it himself. _Shields aren't infinite- I've not seen much they can't block, but it's totally unsound that they can just bock everything always._ Flying clear of the writhing mass, where he guessed it had been lifted to keep it from harming students, he caught sight of the other boy going around the other way before having to duck a length of tail. Shielding in a panic, Zacharias was struck from below by red spellfire of some sort, causing him to go rigid and slide off his broom.

 _Can't have expected everyone to make it._

The Ravenclaw knew better than to return to the chaos below, least of all to retrieve a helper who had mostly outlived his usefulness. A square protuberance in his trousers indicated that he was carrying the books, meaning he would risk not only his own life but a fair bit of knowledge by flying after the Hufflepuff, and simultaneously he would gain very little. Perhaps a Gyffindor would have made a different decision, but he was pretty sure the first-year girl was one of them, and she was already with Harper on their way out. He sighed slightly as he stared down before abandoning the falling form of Zacharias Smith.

 _Worry not, old mate. Only the good die young._


	22. War at Hogwarts

The world seemed to stop as an unidentifiable boy fell from such a great height that it was impossible not to notice. Was he someone she knew? What would happen when he hit the ground? From that height, she could imagine nothing other than a sickening crunch. Fighting to stay focused on what was in front of her, the line of seventh-year Hufflepuffs was holding, Professor Sprout's plants of no small assistance in physically blocking killing curses. Her House had gathered around one of the entrances, pushing as far out as they dared while the younger Ravenclaws joined the Gryffindors, Hermione's old friend Cho Chang casting shield charms to protect the second-years. Hannah had heard that the reason was because the older members of Rowena's House were acting as wardens, limiting the amount of dark magic that could be done, but she imagined it was necessary for someone to help Godric's children to keep their heads.

There were several unidentifiable students flying, doing their best to knock dark-robed wizards off their brooms and not die themselves, though a bigger one snatched the falling boy out of the air, turning to curse a pursuer of his. Losing track of what was going on as she missed with a few knockback jinxes on the fliers, her ears were filled with the sound of Professor Dumbledore's voice, granting the intruders a final warning to turn back as he held the colossal snake aloft, Professor McGonagall dutifully shielding him.

It had been only an hour since she had sprinted to Hufflepuff Basement, swearing for all she was worth that there were Death Eaters on their way, probably with more than enough help. The majority of the House had been convinced instantly, which frightened her, but she put those fears aside as a few of them frog-marched her to Gryffindor Tower and finally Ravenclaw. It appeared Electrum had no intention to ask the Slytherins for help, and the impassioned cries of Seamus Finnigan insisted that if anything, they should go after them first, while they still had the chance. As she understood it, they would obey Snape, but he was helping Dumbledore. The Hufflepuff first-years had been spread out over the school notifying the teachers of the impending assault on the castle, each instructed not to wait for a response or answer any questions, but to run to windows with a lake view and wait for them to appear. They were among the first to see an enormous snake burst from the ground, a crossbow bolt permanently lodged in each of its eyes. An older student shouted that it was a basilisk, and its stare was fatal, but Hannah could hardly see why that mattered.

The Death Eaters had shown up sometime before the report from Cedric came back that the Slytherins were absent from the dungeon. He had been opposed to going after them, but had taken the post to keep Electrum out of it- she imagined that if he had been allowed to lead the raid, there would be deaths, and more than enough of them would be of his own House, all noble and necessary sacrifices.

It was after a quick announcement from a few of the teachers that the students would be allowed to fight, but only to protect students, including themselves, not the school; not the teachers. Hannah understood the reason. The school would survive any assault, the walls themselves were magic, but it would simply not be allowed to continue if a student died. The Death Eater raid would either be Dumbledore's fault for not repelling it or it would be concluded that he could not have possibly protected the students, meaning the school would close. She imagined the Headmaster saying that magical education could go on without him, but he could not go on without the students having the school.

She remembered realizing she was crying as the Hufflepuffs took their positions.

With the final warning of Dumbledore ignored, he brought down the monster on the mass of dark-robed wizards, killing dozens of them with the writhing beast and a sickening series of crunches and screams. It was then Hannah realized that most of the teachers had been hedging the enemy into one place, Lockhart left to guard the underground passage from whence the beast emerged. To her horror she twisted to hear explosions inside the castle, meaning a few of them had not only passed the Defense professor, but fought their way into the school itself, meaning their first-years who were raining down various basic spells from the windows were exposed. With the second years at the back of the formation guarding the entrance, she was one of the first back inside, sprinting to the stairwell and narrowly avoided being run over by Parvati Patil. _These are only the explosions I could hear. There could have been fifty or sixty and I would never have noticed.  
_

The stairs seemed particularly uncooperative as she tore up the steps with Parvati, Dean Thomas, and an older witch she did not recognize. Listening for explosions or screams, she drowned out the conversation going on behind her.

Her warning signs exploded to life as her ears met with a crashing sound, rounding the corridor as quickly as she could, dizzily touching the floor with her hands before running again, the older witch getting ahead of her. It appeared a pair of wizards was trying to capture the first-years on the windowed corridor alive. _Why... are they hoping they'll join_? Hannah heaved herself out of the way of a body-bind as her companions cursed the wizards, who were shielding, but Dean's nonverbal made it through, turning the tides. Stunned and petrified first-years were raised to their unsteady feet as soon as their assailants were both stunned, courtesy of the Ravenclaw witch.

"That will hold them for a time. Please, get the rest of them," she asked of the young wizard, almost ignoring Parvati and herself. Dean tore up the next flight of stairs the moment they were back out on them, beating the change.

"Looks like this is where we part," the Indian witch muttered as she and Hannah went down a different corridor from where the boy was getting off. _There's nothing for it. We're going to hear about him killing four trained Death Eaters and there's nothing we can do about it._ As she breathlessly pressed on with Parvati, she realized there was nothing in the world she would do about it.

 _They should never have come here._

" _Expelliarmus_!" The disarming charm hit her from behind as a dark robed wizard leaped out of a classroom. All at once she imagined that it was clever of them to think of a uniform of sorts, keeping from hitting each other, but the Gryffindor turned the same spell on her attacker, knocking his wand out of his hand right as Hannah's clattered to the floor. This provided no significant advantage as the man grabbed her, but another disarmer sent her out of his clutches and a knockback jinx put his wand further away from him. Gathering herself, the Hufflepuff managed to retrieve her own, hitting their attacker with a body-bind Ron showed her before he could strike her companion. Chest heaving, the other witch pointed into the classroom, where they found a few first-years bound with conjured ropes.

Freeing the students with a few carefully placed cutters, Parvati regained enough breath to thank her, but she insisted the other girl saved her too. She momentarily wondered where Ron was as a red-headed boy ran out of the room to resume his post.

"We have to see how things are going outside," the other witch decided as they both went to a window.

"How did you know the disarming charm would get me out of his grip?" Hannah asked as they beheld the basilisk dead on the ground, meaning the battle was mostly won, whatever the cost turned out to be.

"I had a hunch," Parvati answered.

The two of them ran around the castle for what felt like hours and probably was, though at the point where they were crawling up the stairs they doubted they would be of much use if they ran into a Death Eater or one of their many lackeys. All the same, they kept searching until the two of them were told to go to the Great Hall by Professor Sprout.

Talking with what little energy they had left on the way there, Hannah grumbled out that they should have expected the other students and the teachers would be doing more of the work in repelling the invaders, that they had been silly to search as long as they did. Parvati agreed.

Filing into the Great Hall and plopping down next to Ernie without regard for House seating, they were some of the last to enter, though she saw no sign of Ron. Hoping he had not died, hoping no one had died, except possibly the Death Eaters, she slumped forward into the hastily prepared food as the Headmaster extolled their many qualities, sure to include the handful of Slytherins who had been of use in some way, though she did not remember seeing any of them fighting. As angry as she was, she was tired enough to think for a moment and figure that it was a conflict of interest, that there were enough of them who supported the Death Eaters, Voldemort, or both that the rest of them had to either go along or there would be hell to pay. At the same time, one particular second year wizard was credited with helping Dumbledore, Snape, and Hagrid get into the Chamber of Secrets.

"It is not something we should take lightly, dear students, to take the life of another," he admonished after a pause. _This must be because everyone just saw him kill the invaders._ "If ever the choice seems perfectly clear, remember this. There comes a time in all of our lives where the choice will appear, whatever its true nature, to be entirely without complication. Whatever meager talent with words I possess, I cannot tell you that this will never come to pass, yet I urge you to consider that others may have been of one mind with you." The Headmaster was leaning on the podium somewhat as he spoke. For a moment Hannah imagined that as long as this old warlock had lived, he could not have walked away with no regret, though in his youth that might have been possible.

In a meeting with Augusta Longbottom at the bedside of her grandson at Saint Mungo's, the lady said in no uncertain terms that living without looking back was a young man's occupation- only those without the memories of failure, disappointment, or love to lose and only those with a great time left to live could afford it. There were times and places where acting in the right meant accepting the risk of a life of regret, shouldering the burden of his own decisions.

The Hufflepuff's eyes welled whenever the matron told her stories of her son and his wife and tears threatened her again as Albus Dumbledore explained, as if speaking only to her, that to separate herself from her enemies she must accept the regret, and to accept it she must consider it when she contemplated something like killing another. Perhaps the suffering of family members losing a loved one was worth the protection innocents would gain from someone dying. It was possible to feel irrational regret, but it was a lighter burden to carry, and the heaviest burden would be guaranteed by treating the cost with cold indifference.

As at last the students were dismissed with an encouragement to keep at least an eye out for the three missing students, it occurred to Hannah that the Headmaster had not moralized with them. He had not wasted a moment explaining why one side or the other was right, because after everything he was still protecting the Slytherins, those remaining at the school and those he still considered his students. He had not argued with them that it was a morally superior way of living to consider the cost of killing people, he had merely warned them about the costs they would heap upon their young backs, burdens that would seem to grow heavier with age. She walked from the room with her palms pressed deep into her eye sockets, the tears going around them. _Why is everyone else okay?_ Hannah bumped into someone in her inability to see, looking up with a momentary distressed smile as a defense mechanism before making it out to the hall and covered her face again. _Maybe he wasn't really talking about his own regret. Maybe I'm imagining things again._ Removing her hands from her face to look at the Prefects as they spoke, she listened to the witch and wizard talk to distract herself.

"Many of us have friends in the Hospital Wing right now, and as we understand it, teachers will make allowances if we go to see them between classes."

"We think the best thing we can do for them, though, is to direct our efforts against those who put them there." The voice belonged to Electrum and Hannah sighed internally. _I guess I'm not the only one._ "And as we all know, that's not just the ones that have been proven. Most people accused of being Death Eaters after the war were let off without so much as a warning. The system just let them all slip through."

"Well how do we know they were really Death Eaters, then?" she asked on a whim. It occurred to her that there was another possible explanation to the idea that there were a lot of them, but only a few got caught. It was possible that there were only a few and all of them or almost all of them got caught. She imagined that what could also have taken place was that a lot of Death Eaters were arrested the first time, and more of them joined the second time. She had heard from Lady Longbottom that the ancient families could usually get the rustics to help them, calling on old debts and loyalties. Beyond that, there were sympathizers, foreign and domestic, but mostly native to the UK and Ireland at the least. It was the grandmother's idea that once other countries were involved, it would be a world war before long, and there would be no way of predicting how that would go.

Susan gave her a pleading look for some reason as one of the older students groaned.

"I'm not going through this again," he explained tiredly. She imagined he had been fighting rather fiercely in the battle that had only ended just recently. Perhaps he was one of the ones who had chased the invaders into the Forbidden Forest, where the magical creatures took a third side, chasing everyone alike. "This is why I've moved for labeling some talk as counterproductive and dangerous."

In the absence of a mixed reaction, many of the students looked away as one of the older witches reminded him that they were still in the castle under Dumbledore, meaning they could not take action against members of their House or any other, and would simply have to suffer disagreement in silence, though Hannah did not listen to every word, staring at the ground as she was. _Saved by a circumstance... if we were anywhere else, they would have ripped me to shreds._ She imagined Electrum holding her still while the rest physically beat her, but she reminded herself they would use magic.

"Very well. We'll leave her disagreement in silence," an older girl started back. "Any who support the Death Eaters or _in effect_ support the Death Eaters will be left in total silence." The idea was met with lukewarm agreement, though whether the other side thought it too heavy a punishment or too lenient she could not say. Hannah had never attended any of their meetings, but as she understood it they saw themselves as the only legitimate Hufflepuffs, a group of friends, and for that reason their society adopted no name and carried no mark of identification. Other Houses referred to it as 'the conspiracy' or 'the secret society', but she believed that the only way they could really be named would be if they did something significant and unanimously, or possibly if they all became werewolves at once, but only if they did not turn anyone else.

Hannah sighed alone in the corridor, resolving to find her way back to the basement, or perhaps the room she had found for Ron and herself when it still seemed like they had a hand on the steering wheel. _Did Susan even successfully get her aunt to rouse the Department of Magical Law Enforcement? Why did we think that would work?  
_

Her thoughts turned to the grim future as she found her way to the stairs and climbed them, deciding to plop down on the bed in the girl's room and die, or maybe get up in the morning if she needed breakfast. The term was not over, meaning she would have work to do, as the school could hardly give up on educating the students without being shut down, but that was starting to look like what would happen all the same. There were three students missing, two of them first-years, meaning they most likely came from the upper levels where a few of the invaders had gotten in. She shuddered to think of where they had been taken, and imagined everyone else was thinking the same thing.

 _Maybe the school should close._ Hannah entered the perfectly normal home, finding the door was already closed behind her. Starting to take her robes off on autopilot, she looked around for the washroom.

 _We can't keep invaders out- well, we can't keep everyone safe. We were already on a short leash._ The decoration in the upstairs bathroom was frilly and daffodil, leaving her wondering who had designed it. She shook off the notion, turning to the more important question in her mind.

 _How are we meant to learn if the school closes? How are we meant to fight?_


	23. Conflict of Interest

Draco had long since been freed from the body-bind curse, but he still felt trapped.

The worst thing about the basic variant of the body-bind was its inability to freeze the entire body, meaning those under it for long periods of time would suffer pains in the digestive system, though he had been able to straighten them out before contacting his father to find the battle was mostly over.

"It was not for your sitting out of it that the invasion failed, Draco," the Lord Malfoy explained through a secret fire call. "No ancient magic, no human shield, and no sudden act of brilliance by Albus Dumbledore could have prevented us had the ground forces made it inside."

"Someone must have told him-" he decided hastily, scanning the common room to see if anyone could hear him. Having been petrified during the battle, he expected to meet the ire of both the proper purists as well as the others, the filth that stained Slytherin House with their myopic practicality. Until the castle could be taken, he would need to keep his voice quiet.

"Let no one know of your suspicions," his father had begun. "If you are to ostensibly side with one party or another while at Hogwarts, you will do well to side with the one closest to where you sleep." He almost chuckled. "The Dark Lord would not see it as a fault of loyalty."

Draco nodded quietly as the face in the fire disappeared. It was not his first clue that while the Lord Voldemort could be harsh to those who had deserted him during the time where it appeared he was truly gone, he had a sufficient grasp of practicality or possibly wizarding economics that he knew better than to dispose of his followers in high places. He remembered hearing Avery say the idea of keeping him from coming back had been tossed around, but it was really too late when he had the Philosopher's Stone. No man could kill him save possibly Dumbledore, and anyone who leaked the information would be killed by the more fanatical supporters, the loons who had been responsible for the name 'Death Eaters' in the first place, like Aunt Bellatrix. He hated thinking his own relation mad, but that was the truth, as little as he liked to accept it. Perhaps she had been driven mad in her fanatical devotion to the Dark Lord, always trying to rationalize him as the hero that Salazar and purism always needed, when the reality contradicted what she needed to believe. Perhaps she was always mad, lost in the previously hopeless case of magic and the wizarding world until he came around in nineteen forty three, or one _Anno Domini Oscuri_ , before her time all the same.

It would have been easy to idolize a man who resolved to never die.

Draco sighed, alone in the common room with a dim fire yet smoldering.

The truth was, though the name was a bit mad, it effectively summarized what the purists were trying to do, if nothing else. To protect magic and prevent the death of the wizarding world, they would fight once more, as the nobility must in times of war. In what great numbers they could command and through the might of the old magicks they remembered, they would put their lives on the line, taking the death upon themselves to save the greater whole of the wizarding world. Ingratitude was expected from the badly brought up commoners, the blood traitors, and the Ministry, but the hope had been that the message would get out and the purists would gain control of Magical Britain. As the country had almost entirely decoupled from the nonmagical by the nineteen seventies, it would make sense to institute a royal family, his own if none else would suffice. Monarchy would prevent the land and its passing governments from ever going too far afield of the truth, though it would be necessary to ensure the family did not befall the same fate as the Muggle counterpart, retaining what few powers sentimentality, absence of necessity, or lethe kept Parliament from removing.

Turning his mind to present concerns, he had some idea his old mentor of sorts, Adrian Pucey, had been fighting on Dumbledore's side. Perhaps he would explain that he could see the only possible conclusion to the battle, but the excuse would not serve. There was only one possible conclusion to the war to preserve magic, and as a result the purists fought to make more conclusions possible. In this way he could further understand the admiration directed at their leader; while most Slytherins would analyze their opportunities and probabilities, he would make them new and change the odds. It was possible to return from death. The Chamber of Secrets was no longer a legend. The Heir of Slytherin would reclaim the school. The green of the underwater gloom gleamed in his eyes as his expectations turned to the future- under the Dark Lord, dark magic would be brought into the light, understood as it was beginning to be studied in Durmstrang. The manifest truth about the origin of magic would easily defeat competing theories, and the wizarding world could at last begin to prepare for the eventual failure of Secrecy.

Unable to focus on his reading for the time being, he resolved to get back to it in the evening in the hope his thoughts would leave him alone. Leaving the common room and walking out into the dungeon corridor, he glared at a passing crowd of Gryffindors. _It remains a true pity we could not have killed some of them. It would be magical blood spilled and the Ministry would almost certainly impel the school to close, but it would be rather satisfying to wipe the traitors off the map ahead of the appointed time._ He reminded himself that their parents were the dangerous ones, presently at any rate.

From their manner, trading stories and knocking heads like apes over their unearned victory, he expected they would not be back to coursework as soon as time permitted, using the carte blanche excuse of 'trauma' to justify missing assignments or poor performance. While perhaps a year ago he might have used a similar excuse, he could not lower himself again, even in an obvious lie. He had a reputation to maintain, though presently he was uncertain exactly what it was.

"Mr. Malfoy-" Professor Snape's droning voice came from behind him.

"Sir?"

"Collecting what little remained of the basilisk's eyes and its priceless venom reminded me of the Acromantula venom you possess." _He's talking to me like any other student- well, any other Slytherin. Is there someone watching?_

"My project proceeds as planned, though I have relocated it to the Manor where it may not be molested." Enough of it was true that he dared utter it to a Death Eater. He suspected that the Dark Lord had some continued need of him as long as he was at Hogwarts, playing the role of Dumbledore's dog. _That could be reason enough- he would have to at least ostensibly assume the 'best' of me, at least in public places._

"I am most pleased to hear it. There are... few in your year who have demonstrated an appreciation for the subtle art of potion making," his Head of House offered before disappearing. _Moves like a spider, that wizard._

In truth Draco had an appreciation for it and was doing his best to develop the requisite patience, but there were other arts that also captured his interest, not the warding or the mind arts his father favored, but the undiscovered realm of astronomy, which seemed to underlie all other magicks in one form or another. It was as if he had some ancient calling to it, and he knew he could apply it practically. He would exceed at all things, as was necessary for his station, but his specialties would be very different from his mentors. Only by setting off on his own could he truly distinguish himself, and the black void beyond all worlds seemed to offer infinite possibilities for success and failure. As he understood it, astronomy served as the naming tradition for the House of Black, to which he was heir as soon as the last son died in Azkaban, and he had every intention to learn the secrets of Orion, the mysteries of the planets and the stars and the wonders yet undiscovered.

It was a cruelty that he would be confined to the mundane for the duration of the war, but it was a cruelty he could accept as it was a cruelty he could return.

In the spirit of returning cruelties, he had it out of Nott, who had freed him from his curse while surveying the damage done to the library, that Lockhart had taken down a few of the invaders on their way in through the tunnel, obliviating them and using them as human shields. Smirking at the thought of that as something the Defense instructor would do, as he had to be skilled enough at memory charms, his expression changed when he learned that Rowle blasted through all of the wizards suspended in the air before blasting Lockhart himself. It was an explosive curse Snape had taught him, but the point had not been to spill magical blood with it. He had argued and was supported by both Nott's father and Gibbon that they were useless without their memories, and killing the caster of the charms was the only way to properly avenge them. In any event, it was a time-sensitive operation and they had only just managed to get into the castle even with the expediency Rowle engendered. Avery had less to say on the matter, as he had been crushed by the writhing basilisk after he and his lifelong friend Mulciber had been unable to magically heave the beast back at Dumbledore. Shouting at the head of House Malfoy that the Dark Lord should have been there for the critical push for Hogwarts, Draco was pleased to hear his father clarify that their leader was elsewhere doing work of still greater import, necessarily operating alone for his insidious plot. He had already convinced the Ministry not to reveal the truth of his return, though there were many who did not believe it already. Outside of the school, it was merely a rumor exacerbated like a child's game of fire call.

Having spoken with Crabbe and Goyle, it appeared that the wizards who had been memory charmed, those who survived, anyway, had yet to regain their minds after the caster died. It made sense, he supposed, since the spell had already been used on countless muggles and had it not been perfect, it would not have been used as the safeguard of Secrecy. _It may be that charms are different from curses- or possibly this particular one was designed to last forever._

He had considered spellcraft as a worthwhile pursuit, but in truth it was not as simple as he would have liked. Remembering that this was true for most things, he kept up with his reading on the subject. _Leave it to the Crabbes and Goyles to practice curses and hexes. Finer minds are required for finer things._

It was well enough that Lockhart died, as it meant getting him out of the way was no longer a concern. He supposed that if the wizard had seriously been down there to repel an invasion by himself, it might have been someone's idea of a joke or a clever way of getting him killed, assuming there were others who knew him for a fraud. Having heard that Professor Snape had been called down to the Chamber of Secrets, he began to formulate how that had most likely taken place. He wondered if the great oaf or the old fool objected to it, though they would quickly find themselves unable as the Defense teacher volunteered, unwilling to be exposed to the very end. _It's not the only thing worse than death._

Draco had been hoping for some fieldwork, but regrettably as his father had not mentioned any opportunities for him over summer holiday, it was almost certain he was in for more study. _I must confine my expectations. Not only am I not a true Death Eater, but I was forced to not participate in the only battle where I might have proven myself. All they know of my capabilities is that I'm somewhat more advanced than the average second-year._ The thought irked him, but not as much as the possibility it might have actually been true. _With Quirrell here, I was learning. He knew the material better than anyone Dumbledore could have found- it may be that he agrees in part with the Ministry's plan to weaken us, or he may have engineered it himself._

They had the plan out of Yaxley, so it would be sufficiently well-advised to put the message through an embellishment filter, but essentially, the 'toad woman' was garnering support for warding that could be placed on wands to detect the use of dark magic at a range, like the Trace only it could be pinned on one wand or the other. The legal precedent held that a wizard was responsible for the spells his wand was used to cast, so it might be counted as a step in the right direction for those who had a problem with the way the current system could result in an incorrect conviction. The purists had little interest in the legal specifics, though Selwyn had opined that he would have hoped anyone with the sufficient degree of concern for Secrecy would understand the necessity for the Trace and a system that pinned the crimes on the true offenders, as that was the best way to reduce the number of offenses. It made sense enough in Draco's mind, though that only meant he would need to do more reading. Every time he learned something, it seemed like he learned more about how little he knew.

In any event the Dark Lord had expressed doubts that the plan would have any effect on him or his vassals in the short run. As the idea was to expand the influence of the Ministry, the officials carrying it out would deliberately avoid warding the wands of the Death Eaters, especially effective if the theoretical assault on Azkaban went well. If everything went according to plan, the fence sitters and Dumbledore's people would have their wands monitored, while criminals and his friends would continue to put pressure on them, causing them to run to authority for protection. The Lord Malfoy had explained at length the many inefficiencies and avenues for corruption in magical government, but it was a useful weapon from time to time. The majority of its problems solved themselves, as they provided more than enough opportunities for those with the political acumen of his father.

The current polls in Slytherin were decidedly bizarre. He had counted Montague a madman for conducting it, especially without blind voting, though it was possible Pucey was behind him, stirring the pot to take attention away from himself. Draco might have expected no one would respond at all, but some were actually rather quick to establish themselves as purists. _It might be the result of the battle. If I were to declare my vote first, I would only do so if I had an idea of how the tally would end up. It would serve as a show of confidence had I prearranged Nott and Evan- Crabbe and Goyle would never vote before me, and having heard they would never vote against me._ In the end he was not surprised the tally resulted in unanimity for the blood purists. He might have wondered how it would have gone had the vote been anonymous, but no one would have believed that. It had been too long since the idea must have occurred, there was bound to be a charm for revealing who had touched it. _I'll ask Padma._

His relationship with the Indian witch had grown tense. Though she knew he was a purist and understood the latest actions of the Death Eaters and their minions as the logical conclusion to what they believed, she insisted there were other options available. They were somewhat time-consuming for his taste, and he explained why time was a factor in any of their plans, though there was an argument to be made that spilling magical blood was worse than consuming time. He had explained in their last meeting that it was their own blood they spilled, that they had not indeed killed the three missing Hogwarts students, one of whom was a Slytherin, the other a blood traitor, and the third someone who had already been spared by the Death Eaters.

"That's not going to be what's printed," the Patil girl had predicted grimly.

"Oh, almost certainly. Eight different corpses are going to mysteriously surface for each of them, then it will be positively certain that we killed them." He made no secret of his allegiance. To his slight surprise, she had abstained from battle, healing and reviving first-years on the higher floors. In her words, she was there long enough to be bound with conjured rope by a pair of dark-robed wizards, though as Dean Thomas cut through both of them at the throat he neglected to send a cutter in her direction. At the end of the hallway another wizard was going in through the window only to be blasted back out.

Draco considered the possibility the boy was mad.

"How many did you lose?" she asked, possibly thinking of the same thing. Her head was propped up on her hand, elbow resting on the table.

"In the end only about twenty died. Gibbon and Bulstrode are expert Battle Healers, though a few of the rustics were worthy of note." He supposed their isolation had forced them to become more independent.

"Why?" she asked, moving her hand across her face. "Why do you do this?"

"I have never pretended we are all saints, Padma." he started simply. "Firstly, we do what is necessary and from time to time that involves killing people. The Dark Lord has an attachment to Hogwarts and it would pain him to see it closed or destroyed, but more than anything we refuse to spill magical blood, especially that of children." He sighed. "If we are to protect the magical world from muggles, there must remain enough of it to protect after the war. Only monsters kill children when it is not absolutely necessary, and we are not monsters. It is not something we would do under these circumstances or any others."

 _I shall let her draw her own conclusions regarding the Dark Lord._


	24. Interlude: Dark Clouds over the Heart

Smith had yet to arrive, but this did not matter to Anthony.

Wherever the boy was, dead or alive, he was useless, and therefore it would be stupid to lose sleep over him. There was no compelling need to have a Hufflepuff with them, especially not as House distinctions were steadily becoming irrelevant. Cementing himself as a leader to avoid being a third wheel, he had led the group out of the metropolitan area where the portkey landed, getting on a taxi and paying with a pair of American fivers to go as far as they could get for it. He remembered a look of uncertainty on the face of the driver, seeing a trio of foreign children in strange clothes, but the money he was being offered was considerable. Due to the current J.J. notes being locked on the US fivers, it was roughly equivalent to $126, which at an exchange rate of 1.5, the last he had heard, came out to 84£. As expected, the driver took the cash and opened the doors. As the young wizard entered the passenger side, he scowled at the darkening sky.

The air was dry and the heat more or less unbearable, but the vehicle was moving and the windows were down, the Mesurado already behind them. Anthony suspected the taxi would not survive many trips out of the city, but that was not his problem. By the street signs they seemed to be moving north, toward what appeared to be the edge of a large semi-urban area. The portkey had been set for Monrovia, which was not exactly desirable as it was the capital, but there were no other Liberian destinations available, and the ones keyed to nearby countries would put him further away from his goal of an isolated location where the three of them could avoid detection. As the boy and the girl in the back seat stared out at the passing buildings and landmarks, as if trying to take it all in at once, he did his best not to audibly scoff. Though Liberia was home to a people of destitute means, he supposed there was a simple sort of appeal to being anywhere for the first time. The former first-years would be his only companions for the foreseeable future, and it would be wise to let them have their fun. His mind took him back to meeting them in London.

He arrived soon enough in his family's old apartment through the fireplace, cutting the yellow police tape with a muttered severing charm, the pink spellfire fizzling out just beyond the intended target. The young wizard supposed he was violating muggle and magical law at the same time, though he would not long languish under the authority of either system. The broomstick he had been using had been cast aside at the wizarding home in the neighboring town from which he took the floo, not out of concern for Secrecy so much as a more general unwillingness to be detected. _They won't catch me making the same mistake as my father.  
_

The streets of London were as busy as ever, and such fit with his plans. He looked relatively anonymous in a crowd, and he had dressed the part, wearing muggle clothes for weeks leading up to his eventual flight of the coop. Stopping at the Royal Bank of London, he spoke to the manager to request the entirety of his funds in cash, a somewhat troubling withdrawal. He explained that he was moving house, where he would be far from the city where his parents died, and that withdrawing in United States dollars would make the move easier, if at all possible. Without a guardian, there were the requisite legal issues, though he argued that he was moving to where his nearest family member lived, rather than having them cross the ocean just to pick him up.

At length the bank approved the withdrawal at the usual exchange rate, and Anthony made a mental note to learn the Confunding Charm to avoid the hows and whys in future discussions with muggles. He shrugged as he put the suitcases of cash into his own trunk, shrinking them as they went in. _It's going to be a pain to dig these out._

Returning to Magical London through the entrance he had taken what felt like thousands of times, he nicked a copy of the _Prophet_ off a stall while the owner was looking the other way, navigating to the International Portkeys Office by means of a map he had drawn up about a month prior. The building was not labeled as clearly as he thought appropriate, but a passing older witch was able to confirm he was at the right place.

On the inside of the building, it seemed the builders shared the Founders' taste in limestone, though the stairs to the different offices assembled themselves rather than moving around, each stone floating into place as the wizard climbing moved to step on it. _How the hell do people get used to this?_ The office doors themselves were paintings, each depicting what seemed to be a different scene from somewhere in the world. Anthony could pick out Japan, Italy, and somewhere in Russia, but the distinctions between the rest of him neither registered with nor concerned him. Geography and culture were things that could potentially benefit him, but reflexive knowledge in the fields of study would rarely be better than what could be gained by an hour or so of research.

To his surprise, his confederates were waiting for him at the office, but he adjusted his position on the matter. _I should have expected it, at least as a possibility. I know more about where we're going than they do, so they wouldn't want to leave without me, even if I catch up._

"Do you have it?" he asked, wasting no time with pleasantries. It was no coincidence he did not remember their names.

"Ginny nicked it off the shelf with a levitation charm. I was talking to the employees," the boy muttered. "You'd think they'd have something to prevent that."

"How are they going to retrieve it, getting it themselves?" he asked rhetorically. In truth he imagined that different stores, government facilities, and people's homes had different levels of security based on what the owners wanted to implement, all costs and benefits considered. At the same time, there was no reason not to remind the other boy that he, Anthony was the brains of the operation.

The portkey was a slip of parchment, no more or less than what was required for the task.

As expected, the trip went perfectly. After all, it had been planned perfectly.

In the outskirts of the city, the driver started talking again as they passed through a residential area.

"The St. Paul River will lead you to the rainforest. It feeds the trees." Anthony had expressed a desire to see the quieter, undeveloped areas, though he had an idea of where he was going. "The soldiers will raid farms, so stay away from them."

He simply nodded in response. He was aware the country was at war, but it was a muggle conflict, which would really provide more of a fascination than a cause for concern. It would mean food would be harder to obtain, since militaries usually confiscated it to feed themselves when they lacked funding. Food confiscation meant a decreased incentive to go about making it, leading the agricultural community to make only enough for themselves, spending the rest of their time for other purposes.

There were limited resources at Hogwarts on the country, so whatever he planned in advance would have to be flexible, able to respond to new information. One of his early goals was Mount Wuteve in the county of Lofa, though there were rumors the National Patriotic Front of Liberia was using it as a base. _It's either them or the Liberian Armed Forces- at least neither of them are affiliated with the Brotherhood.  
_

There were rumors they knew about magic, after all.

There were rumors they practiced it.

While the former French West was as much under the International Statute of Secrecy as the rest of the world, local magical governments got away with a laxer policy due to the ubiquitous superstition on the continent. When the muggle news picked up a story about people shooting fireballs out of staffs, vampires, or children acting like they were possessed, no one in the international community took it seriously. Nonmagical Britons would purse their lips and silently regret parting with twenty seven pence for the kind of newspaper that considered superstition worthy of the front page. Though it was really only a cost saving convenience for, say, the Dendi Kingdom or the Bamana Empire, both extant in the magical world, even if the pair of them succeeded in obliviating everyone who saw anything inconvenient, there would still be reports due to the muggle populations that continued to believe in magic. Perhaps it was a cyclical problem, as explained the argument that the people of Europe were once aware of the magical world as well, but it was a problem no easier to solve. In their defense, the superstition the local muggles believed was far from the truth, so the worst-case scenario of the nonmagical actually knowing about the wizarding population and how magic worked had been avoided.

As the three former students got out of the car, the driver leaned over to caution him about something.

"Look, I don't know what you kids are doing out here," he said without emphasis. "I know enough that I don't want to know."

"We know about the soldiers, sir," Anthony explained respectfully. It seemed the others were listening more charitably. "We'll stay out of their way."

"There are more bad things. Mokele-mbembe live in the swamps. Don't go near them. They kill people. They kill Grootslangs."

Anthony nodded quietly. _No idea what that is._

"We'll be careful," the readhead girl filled in at last, perhaps feeling the need to say something.

The meeting ended without another word.

Anthony might have wondered how the man figured him for a wizard, or perhaps someone who was simply not normal, but they would most likely never see him again. He doubted most muggle taxi drivers had ever encountered a trio of foreign children who wanted to be driven out to the wilds, and it was probably enough to guess it was better to have nothing to do with them. The man would take them where they were going, but he had no intention of following, and that likely had little to do with whatever mythological creatures the locals believed to exist. He had heard of Erumpents, but those were far to the south, as _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_ explained. As the three of them watched the car leave, Anthony mentally scoffed at how almost all of the remotely useful books on Africa had been about the magical creatures, since they gave him a rough idea of the geography.

"Is there a proper government anywhere around here?" the boy next to him asked, interrupting his thoughts as he stared at the fragmented, twisted figure of the St Paul. _I did assure them they would not need to worry about recapture by the locals._

"The nearest Ministry of Magic is in Burkina Faso, a few thousand kilometers north. They have no authority here," he clarified.

Taking in the scene, as the others had, there was an appeal to the greens of the plant life, from the mangroves in the water to the impossibly tall trees, though the canopy as they walked under it did little more than block the sun. The river was surprisingly clean for all that went into it, and the volume of the water was significant, which made sense when he accounted for rainfall in the rainforest. The driver had taken them to the end of a local road that it appeared was previously used for logging, but he imagined business was on hold, with foreign investors pulling out due to the war.

Elsewhere in the country he knew of stepped hills, plateaus that looked like inverted strip mines, as well as rivers that were populated by hippopotamuses, a dire threat to the unwary.

"We're not going to the mountain, then?" the girl- Ginny was her name- put together sharply enough.

"No. We're going a bit into the forest; we make a base of operations there." _They're not going to find me here. If the Death Eaters look here, all they'll find is a horde of distractions, and the locals can be expected to provide more than enough of those. After that, I'm going to use the Imperius Curse on magical creatures like Erumpents, and they will form the second line of defense. The beasts are naturally resistant against most spells, but if there's a way, I'll use it._

Anthony had considered looking into the African school, where he heard some Hogwarts students had transferred, in the event that there would be esoteric magic which could help him, but doing so would paint a target on himself. _As such, mastering the Imperius is my first real task- obtaining a local to order around would make for the perfect reconnaissance system._

Following the moving water as the forest seemed to envelop them, the three former students kept eyes out in all directions. The pairs of eyes searched for different things, but Anthony doubted the other two would find anything if they kept returning to each other, before again turning away. _They'll get over each other sooner or later. Relationships at this age never last long.  
_

For his own part, he figured he would be interested in that sort of thing eventually, but at the present he had more vital concerns. As much as it irked him, he would be wiser when he was older, and as long as there was time to observe the mistakes of others, it would serve him well not to make any himself. He found Padma to have a good head on her shoulders, siding with the people more likely to kill her than the others, who would only put her in prison. At the same time, she sealed her fate with him. As long as she was alive, she would be his enemy.

The sky was growing darker and Anthony ignited his wand, gripping it tightly.

The killing curse would be effective, but entirely too good for her, and a mind was a terrible thing to waste. Instead, he would use a memory charm, or possibly the Imperius, depending on his research.

"I think I heard something."

"What is it, Harper?" Ginny asked. Her wand was out, but not lit. _Better one light than three- one light could be a will 'o the wisp, but three would be unmistakable._

"I don't know, some trampling sound."

Rather than uselessly say he had not heard anything, he waved his wand, casting a muffled explosive curse on the ground, turning the earth.

"What the hell are you doing?" Harper asked. The red-haired witched looked at him again. _Look out for danger, girl._

"Turning earth. I've got a temporary shelter," he muttered, tossing the chest from his pocket into the loose dirt. " _Engorgio._ " The chest grew to its normal size, or maybe a bit bigger. _Still can't remember how big it was when I got it. Doesn't matter.  
_

"Anthony, what is it?" Ginny asked, frustrated. She was twisting around madly, pointing her wand at the slightest sound or shadow. With the sun setting, the shadows were stretching. "Is it an elephant?" _Probably not. I could handle an elephant. I wouldn't know what to do about a whole herd of them, but they don't live around here._

"It's either the army or the rebels- it doesn't matter which." _If I didn't have a dog in the fight with Voldemort and whoever else, I don't have a flea in this one._

"Are they that dangerous?" Harper asked quietly, picking something round and green off the trees.

"Enough of them, and only three of us? How many combative spells do you know?" he snapped. "Let's say we kill one and the rest run, best possible case- what then? We have to move again and there's a report about three unidentified-"

"I get it-"

"Get a move on-" The sounds continued, though they seemed closer.

"Well if you're intent on getting in there without pro-" Ignoring Harper's interruptions, he had a thought of stunning the boy and dragging him in, but that would be an unnecessary caloric expenditure. His knowledge of a few spells from the higher classes of Britain would be of some use, but it was not worth dying over him. Instead, he simply opened the chest and got the girl in there, the boy following shortly after, laden down with what looked like green grapefruit, but with a different texture.

"What the hell is that?" Anthony asked as he got in the chest after, thankful for the countless hours he had spent practicing the charm that made it all possible. Harper was cutting the fruit with a severing charm like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"It's called a breadfruit. They're all over the place here." He handed a piece to Ginny. "It's a crop distinct to Liberia."

The wizard briefly stared at him as he took a piece himself, not bothering to ask how the other boy knew about agriculture. _He would have only known about managing expenses and revenues from his family's land holdings, if even that._ Anthony rolled his eyes. _Next someone is going to tell me he was just interested._

A deep, inconstant trumpeting came from outside.

Anthony moved the earth around above them with a levitation charm, hoping he was covering the top of the box.

"What the hell is that?" he asked again, more quietly this time.

"That, I would guess, is a Grootslang," Ginny responded.

Anthony gave another blank stare, unable to keep the confusion out of his face.

"I'm almost certain it's not a Mokele-mbembe," she confirmed quietly, nodding mostly to herself.


	25. An Indoor Gryffindor

Staring out the window to take his mind off things for a moment, he found there was no one out flying, something he would not be able to do in his present condition, though the idea of it brought him a bit of peace, the freedom of being up in the air, a place where he could go in any direction he chose.

The Hospital Wing was not a place that made him feel free.

There was a quiet sobbing coming from a girl on her knees next to his assigned bed, her familiar bushy hair straightening with the tears every time she looked up, only to look down again, not wanting to meet his eyes. Hermione gave no verbal responses to his questions as he asked them. At one point, he had tried to shift and put his arm around her, but he had to levitate it to get it to move and she refused it, slapping it before apologizing and going back to crying into her sleeve.

"Hermione, if you don't stop crying, I'm going to have to get Madam Pomfrey to plug your tear ducts." His expression changed to an interrogative one. "Would you like that?" Violet vapors came out of his mouth as he spoke. _Bloody curses..._

She looked up, her eyes still red and wet.

"How can you still joke about this?" she asked. _Well, I reckon it's better than crying. Might be the first thing she's said since she got un-petrified._

"Well, I can't exactly tell you, but I promise you'll puzzle it out if you promise not to cry for an hour." The Ravenclaw stared at him a moment before acknowledging the joke with a nod, though it did not provoke laughter from her.

"I mean... you're hurt... I've never seen anyone hurt this badly before. Can they even heal you?"

In his mind he was banged up badly enough, but as far as he understood it was almost all on the surface, where the magic was already taking effect. The bones in both of his feet had to be vanished and regrown, after his broom had been destroyed in flight by a reductor curse, his inability to slow his fall taking him out of the battle as he hit the ground. It had been George who carried him out.

"I'll be fine, I think. I don't know much about Healing. Not like they're going to put me in Saint Mungo's, though. Even if I could afford it." This time Hermione managed a chuckle, though it might have been for his benefit. _Which is odd, since I wasn't joking._

There was a long silence and if he had been more perceptive, Ron might have been able to say some understanding passed between them. But whatever he was supposed to be getting out of the witch in blue-trimmed robes, and whatever he was supposed to be communicating to her, he had not the slightest idea. _I really don't care much for this kind of ambiguity._

"Do you... feel bad for some reason?" he asked.

"Where do I begin?" she answered at length. "I mean... you know by now I tried to leave, right? I thought... it doesn't matter. I thought I had it the worst out of anyone in the world- here you are bloodied and cursed and feeling pain you're not telling me- I thought it just wasn't my responsibility, none of it; this whole world was just something I couldn't fix- and- and the first thing I hear when I ask about you- I'm sorry, I asked about the Heir first- is that you'd been injured fighting! I couldn't believe _students_ were fighting- and only because if they didn't fight, the Death Eaters would have the castle- Did no one die?" He nodded. Ginny had to be alive, somewhere. _I'll find her, no matter how far I have to go. If Fred and George don't want to help, they can shove off, the pair of them._ "And- the moment I get in here to apologize for not being there, for getting my stupid wish and having everyone else handle things, you ask me if I've heard anything about your sister- or your bloody rat."

Ron's eyes widened a moment in confusion, not able to tell if she was feeling upset at herself, upset at him, upset at him for making her upset at herself, or generally upset. He considered offering to make tea. _I'd probably just burn myself if I did it like this._

"I haven't seen the rat," Hermione said at length. "And I haven't heard anything about Ginny," she answered more quietly. "I'll tell you the moment I do."

"You know a bit ago you were up in arms about a cat-" he coughed, interrupting her glare in his direction with a look of concern. "-not even your cat, mind."

The Ravenclaw's eyes dried. She looked off with a momentary smile before returning.

"Here we are, fighting again," the witch announced, meeting his eyes before shaking her head. "Well, here I am, fighting with you as if I can complain. I'm sorry." Her voice was as sincere as it was steady, where before it had shook. _She doesn't normally let it do that._ "I'm sorry I couldn't help you." Ron wanted to interrupt her, to tell her it was not her fault, but he had already interrupted her once and it had not gone well. "I'm sorry I wanted this," she offered as her fingers balled into a fist. "I'm sorry you ended up like this... to think I had a couple light burns after last year... I don't even know what kind of curses you have."

"Don't think I got the worst of it," he muttered, his thoughts drifting to the people who died. _Guess she hasn't heard about Lockhart. No reason to tell her, I reckon._

"What do you mean?"

"Well, think of all the classes you missed. You're probably a book and a half behind, if you're lucky," the wizard diverted, looking straight up from his supine position to keep his friend from seeing his face. _Hermione's doing that thing again where she's making herself responsible for everything. Well, maybe it's different now. I wish I knew._ Hearing her chuckle at his joke put his wondering at ease for a moment.

"I won't have as much to make up as someone we know," she said more clearly. _Might be she's run out of tears._ "Hannah's locked herself in the library. She's up to something, and I think I know what it is."

"Well I don't. I haven't seen her in days." Immediately after his having said this, there was someone at the door and he turned to see his father being allowed in, only to quickly look at the scene before nodding and showing himself out. _Bloody hell, Dad. I didn't have her kneel next to my bed and I bloody well didn't ask her to cry over it._ Fortunately his first visitor failed to notice his second, though she saw the red rising on his face.

"What?"

"Never you mind. Did anyone say anything about when I get out of here? They never tell me a thing."

"They said they still don't know about some of the curses but it's nowhere near as bad as whatever Dean has. When they could get him to sit still long enough to run a few curse detection tests, all they could find was that they basically couldn't even tell what he is anymore."

"Did he have any comment?" _I reckon I'd tell them to sod off._

"He doesn't know about the diagnosis. I only overheard it when I was in Professor Flitwick's office, before he came in. Do you know anything about Unspeakables?"

"They're up to secret stuff down in the Department of Mysteries," he responded before deciding there might be someone listening in. _Prob'ly better not to mention any of that. Not until we get to the room anyway._

"Does anyone know what they're doing apart from breaking curses?"

"Not really. Everything they do has to be secret, so even the Ministry doesn't really know what goes on down there. Reckon it's why Ebony didn't get sacked after last year." He coughed another violet haze before insisting it was nothing. The Gryffindor was relatively sure there was nothing wrong with his lungs.

"She's an Unspeakable when not an Inspector?"

"No, she's an Inspector all the time. Even the ones who weren't secretly going to Hogwarts every year had responsibilities apart from that-" _I'm saying too much again._ Scanning the Hospital wing, it appeared there was at least no one watching them. Hermione seemed to pick up on his intention.

"Ron, those are just... wild speculations. You've no idea what they do in the Department."

"Right. Shouldn't get ahead o' myself," he added entirely too quickly. His friend rose and started to walk off, as if the real reason for leaving had to do with the coursework she was trying to list all at once.

"...then I've got to catch up on Professor Sprout's- oh, I just can't imagine what's happened to my plants- but before that I need to learn about the properties of asphodel for a practical demonstration in Potions- Professor Snape won't forgive me if it's late, not even if I'm still petrified- I can't imagine the notes he's left on my record-" she rambled while walking backward, bumping into Madam Pomfrey on her way out the door. The matronly Healer simply stepped aside, though for a moment Ron pictured her picking up the Ravenclaw and rounding to set her down behind and on her merry way.

His father walked in a polite minute and a half later, as if to indicate he had done something else rather than stay by the door listening in, though there was probably very little he could have heard. Oddly enough he was smiling.

"That's my boy," he started. "To think, the first time I had Molly crying over me I was already in fourth year, and that was because I tried to use a Muggle toaster for- well, that's not important, either way she was mine for sure after that." He quickly perused the enchanted parchment lying at his son's bedside before muttering 'nothing Bill can't set right in a jiffy'.

"Dad, it's not like that."

"Oh, she _told_ you it's not like that?" he asked leadingly. "Ron with a witch it's never quite like that until you kiss her one day and then it was like that the whole time. Molly asked what took me so long and that was two weeks after she hit me over the head with an enchanted fellytone, don't ask me where I found it; I maintain I did not enchant it myself-"

"Well, no, she didn't tell me it wasn't like that," he answered not entirely to stop his father from incriminating himself.

"Merlin, she must really fancy you."

Ron simply groaned. _Has to like me if she doesn't say it, has to like me if she does- I suppose Madam Pomfrey likes me, Merlin, of all the absolute nonsense-_

"Dad, what happened to the Death Eaters?" The man at the foot of his bed adopted a more serious expression.

"I don't know, son. Almost all of the men who were working directly for You-Know-Who made it out of there without a scratch. They don't put themselves on the front lines. We cleaned up some bodies yes, and more than I would have liked were a bunch of misinformed farm boys not much older than yourself," he explained before pausing to consider it. "I'm not saying all rustics are ignorant, nor is everyone your age-"

"Why didn't the Department show up?" Ron asked. He did not particularly care if his father was prone to generalization, nor that he would hastily correct himself. _Prob'ly explains more than I'd like._

"Well, some of them thought it was a fake," he started simply. "A girl from Hogwarts calls us at random, screaming her head off about Death Eaters attacking the school? It's something you should take seriously, but this close to finals there were those who thought it was that same girl who calls about Professor Snape being a vampire." He sighed, getting out a pad and quill. "Quite a few people in the upper echelons thought it was Dumbledore getting his just comeuppance," he said rather quietly.

"Dumbledore getting his- why? What did he do?" he was getting close to shouting and the school Healer called out a reminder not to strain himself.

"He told the Ministry he could handle safety concerns at Hogwarts. The Department Head, you know her, Amelia Bones, told me to my face that if the Heir of Slytherin attacking students is run of the mill, normal problems that the school can resolve internally, then a handful of Death Eaters should present no problem." His father was writing something as he spoke, but it was probably only a note to himself that he was accustomed to writing. "I suppose if not even one student died, that might even be right, but I know it doesn't excuse the way the Department responded. I'm relatively sure that it was a best case scenario for most people close to the Minister, since it means they'll have the Inspectors back, snooping around in the Restricted Section for books to burn. That's if they don't move the Azkaban guard out here, but that's unlikely. If the Dementors leave the island, it would be easier for the Death Eaters to go there and get their old friends out."

Ron had heard of the cloaked guardians of the magical prison out in the North Sea. He had not seen one himself, and despite his boyhood curiosity, he was eventually turned away from the idea. Most adults seemed to agree that if he never saw one, it would be too soon.

"That's part of the plan? They're going to Azkaban?"

"It has to be on the table," his father said simply. "We haven't heard it out of them or anything, but they would never tell us." He looked away a moment. "I should probably not be telling you most of this, but it seems like you're already involved."

"I know I'm involved. I want to be involved," Ron objected, seeing that it was meant to be a wind of misfortune. "Does it look like I don't want to help?" he asked, choking a little. His father looked down at the many injuries and curses on his diagnosis.

"What it looks like, is that as willing as you are, you're not ready." He sighed. "Son, you did the right thing by not running from the problem. Now I mean to do the right thing by taking those responsibilities from you. Charlie has already volunteered to go looking for Ginny." A pang of guilt stabbed him in the heart. "We were planning a visit to Bill in Egypt, so don't think it's out of the way for us, though we would certainly go there only on your account."

"Where are you going?" He asked, seeing that his father decided it was going to be a short visit.

"I'm going back to work. I can only miss so much- I still need to make sure you're even going to school next year." As he spoke he started to walk out, only to turn once more. "Son, your mother does not want me to tell you, but I'm very proud of you. I'm proud of your brothers too, but I don't care that you're hurt and they're unscathed; you acted like a regular hero out there. You acted like no one your age should have to act."

"I don't care about what I _should_ have to do," he muttered, not expecting to be heard as his father left silently, stopping only to thank Madam Pomfrey, which made him realize he had never done so, not after she had taken care of both him and his friends. _Well, that's her job._

Unable to move much, he levitated his schoolbag onto the bed so he could at least see inside. For once in his life, he had less homework to do than Hermione, and it was a moment he would enjoy, though not for long. As he scribbled out his essay he could imagine she was already catching up to him, though it would be interesting if she ran into Hannah in the library. For a moment he hoped they would be fighting over the same book, but remembered that in the unlikely event that happened, he would not get to witness it.

Frowning, he remembered there was something other than exams on his mind, as was almost always the case. _Can usually count on a distraction at a time like this._

The Heir of Slytherin had yet to be caught.

Whoever it was, it had to be someone who was in before the battle, and it was almost certainly not the first-year who escaped at the same time as Ginny. As little as he liked it, he doubted the pair of them escaping was a coincidence, though he expected others would see it as a kidnapping if they knew. Learning that the third was Goldstein surprised him even less.

There was only one thing he knew for certain.

 _Malfoy knows._


	26. The Library Revisited

Hermione doubted anyone else would notice the missing books from the Restricted Section, though Madam Pince had put up a floating, silvery notice that anyone caught stealing books would be subject to every last one of the curses enumerated in the warnings written into the books themselves. In this way the magical notice made itself redundant except possibly as a display of seriousness, though soon enough she expected the old bird would connect the dots and realize the missing books were with the missing students, or one of them specifically.

It was a wonder, knowing Anthony Goldstein well enough to figure him for hyper-rational, yet not enough to realize he would fly the cuckoo's nest the moment the opportunity presented itself. The thought of having tried to do the same filled her with a new sense of guilt, as she had even encouraged him to 'seek educational alternatives'. As she tried out the repair charm on a ladder that had been used as part of a palisade to keep the invaders out, her own words seemed silly and trite, though mostly they rang of cowardice. It was true that a wiser witch would be trying to leave the library with what knowledge she could carry, but for personal reasons she could no longer stomach turning her back on the friends who had continued the fight while she was petrified. _Perhaps I shall one day have a better reason for it, but where Anthony goes I shall not follow. My place is here, whatever the blood purists believe._

Having heard about them from Padma, who spoke with a listless tone, if in a balanced manner, it was no surprise to her that they would be after the ancient collections of Hogwarts, some of which had been filed away in the Restricted Section. They seemed to pride themselves on doing what was necessary before all else, and having access to more old magicks would expand their arsenal considerably. When she first thought about it, she decided it was a wonder people did not constantly read the time-honored tomes if indeed they contained greater secrets than what was currently in memory, and from seeing him last Anthony opined similarly, but she decided it was rather like all the wonders in the normal world. As rational as it was to go after knowledge when it was needed, it was rational not to pursue it until then, lest one spend her entire life in the library, looking up things that might be useful and never using them.

Hermione sighed. _At least I can do a repair charm- should help with my practical exams._

Passing for the second time that day the hunched, studying form of Hannah, she saw something of her former self in the other girl, though the Hufflepuff appeared to have a better idea of what it was she wanted to learn. In addition, she had a pillow and a stack of prepared bagels far enough away from the books to keep the hawk-eyed librarian off her back.

Having gone into the Restricted Section after being granted permission, she looked for what she actually needed for class as per Cho's recommendations. _It should really go without saying that most of what I'll be needing or wanting in my time at Hogwarts can be found without a note from a teacher. What a small wonder that people thought I was reading about dark magic._

Ebony's unfair first impressions aside, her actions toward the end of the term, while justified, did little to convince people that she had not 'gone bad'. Getting out the books she would need and levitating them, her attention turned to the still-present ward that the Inspector had placed on her wand. _If I've learned anything about wards, I'd have to have someone else remove it. Perhaps Cho would be interested in the challenge._

Her History of Magic essay was leaving a little to be desired, but with a heavy heart she concluded it at half again the expected length rather than the usual double, which she managed to fit within the maximum length by means of her neat writing.

 _The discovery of dark magic was the discovery of light magic; the discovery of magic in general. One does not go into the dark to look for dark magic and into the light for the other variety, but rather one masters dark magic and brings it into the light of understanding, as the ancient wizards of ages past were bound by magical illiteracy to the endless cycle of discovery, loss, and rediscovery. For fear, legitimate or otherwise, there remains magic left in the dark where there is no understanding, and only passion may guide the daring wizard in his blind wandering._

Hoping to make up for lost time in Potions, Hermione had chosen a particularly ambitious brew for the advanced potion topic, summarized in the admittedly vague description of 'something you can't brew'. They were to write about the most likely method to bring about either it or a potion of similar effect, demonstrating the knowledge they were meant to have gained about the science behind the subtle art, though this would be difficult for her since Professor Snape seemed to lecture ways of brewing potions that were not written in books they possessed, either because he had read other books when he was learning, or because he had invented the instructions himself.

 _Made with the incredibly rare Acromantula venom, the Poultice of Permanence combines with any other potion to render the other effect permanent, comparable to an oscillating reaction._ She considered striking the reference to Chemistry, but she remembered the instructor would grade what had been struck out if he were so inclined. _Exceptionally difficult and prohibitively expensive, it has been many years since the potion has been attempted in an academic setting._ A sudden fear of being watched compelled her to hide the latest copy of _Le Journal Apothicaire_ , from which she was blatantly stealing the summary, hoping the potions master would not look too carefully at her citations. _The potion intersects with Alchemy and the idea of indefinite continuation; if anything he should be glad I found one of the last works of Nicholas Flamel._

All of a sudden Hermione was overcome with an urge to strike herself in the head rather painfully.

 _Of course there are other uses for the Philospher's Stone- or at least the Elixer of Life- I hadn't even begun to imagine all of the applications in potion making!_ Writing quickly now, she decided there was really no reason to confine the ingredients required for her essay to those she could realistically obtain, since she would not be brewing a Poultice of Permanence anyway, not for the foreseeable future or until circumstances forced her to shoulder more responsibilities than she could handle once more. Thinking of Ron as she finished the introduction and set about the ingredients list, she wondered how the two of them had come to take so much upon themselves, though she supposed the Gryffindor had his reasons and most of the time she had only been trying to protect herself. It had been Hannah, if anyone, who had been the most proactive out of all of them, though Hermione had a suspicion as to what had gotten her involved.

Looking around at the students in the library, she decided that the past year and the one before had been perilous for all of them. Giving it some thought, the Ravenclaw realized if she were but to ask anyone, there would be a story to tell. It was a logical idea, though she had no way of proving it.

At the same time, she was more sure of that than she was of the idea that the Death Eaters wanted to know how to use the Philosopher's Stone to make an advanced potion, and probably more than once if they were so interested in learning if it could be destroyed or not. _They must have imagined overuse would eventually exhaust it- or possibly they were just interested in protecting it for as long as possible._

Resolving to finish her essay for Professor Snape whenever possible, the witch decided there were still matters of greater import. _We still haven't figured out how the Heir of Slytherin was controlling his monster._ She had heard the potions master gathered ingredients from the corpse, arguing that he had helped kill it and as the Head of House, he essentially had a right to it. If nothing else, the school could not argue that the remains of the basilisk could be used for a better purpose than study, and such a responsibility would fall to him. As far as he had revealed, which was likely only about half as far as he knew, the beast was not being 'manipulated like an Inferius', which she assumed meant the master was less of a puppeteer and more of an effective communicator. _If he really is Slytherin's Heir, I presume that would mean the monster would be inherited like some madman's hunting dog._

Cho and Terry had separately confirmed looking into the literal lineage of Lord Salazar had left them with more questions than answers, as it was not a matter of who was descended from him as who was _not_ descended from him, at least ostensibly. All the old families that regularly favored Slytherin could trace their lineage back to its founder in some form. Had it not been for the conflict of interest, she would not have been surprised if several students had claimed to be the Heir at the same time, though she would be tempted to eliminate them entirely. The monster, or its master, had some wish to keep it from being seen, which was the only reason she could imagine for going after solitary targets. The Heir also seemed to desire to keep the students alive, though apparently the teachers were not afforded the same mercy. It was worth considering that the pair that died might point to some personal grudge, as there were still students with normal parents to target, but even if the Heir personally hated both of them, it did not narrow the list down much. Another matter, however, left her with an interesting question as soon as she backtracked to it.

 _Who could possibly talk with basilisks? Are snakes even intelligent enough to communicate with people?_

Feeling like there were dots she simply could not seem to connect, she decided she would have to ask Professor Dumbledore about how he gained entrance to the Chamber of Secrets, but decided there would be no reason for him to tell her. _All the answers have to be in there- and with the monster dead, there will be no one to stop me looking- no one except the Heir._ Sighing again, she consciously knew she needed reinforcements, but the idea irked her. Going after the Heir alone had only rewarded her with half a term of assignments due in the near future, which she would complete, despite how the fairer teachers insisted 'consideration' would be granted in her case. At the same time, there was nothing wrong with the logic of it. Going alone should have substantially reduced her ability to be detected; it was only the fact that she was approaching the Chamber which made the advantage she hoped to have entirely moot. The Ravenclaw knew how to tell the difference between making a mistake and doing everything the right way but not having it turn out right, though this decision had her torn. _Should I have known that I was approaching the Chamber, where the monster would likely be lurking? Or am I only thinking I should have known because everything seems obvious in retrospect?_

That the monster was a basilisk in the form of a snake was obvious in retrospect, but neither she nor anyone else had known it ahead of time.

There were, of course, those who were still trying to solve the mystery. As she understood it, the Hufflepuffs had accused Adrian Pucey of being the Heir, which she found ridiculous, since he had never indicated he was willing to kill for blood purism, though in their eyes this only made him more guilty, since whoever had petrified or killed all the victims must have been someone who wanted to avoid being caught. The circularity of the reasoning notwithstanding, the older Slytherin had been unable to but turn his back on even the youngest of those in robes of yellow trim. He had not been the only one watching his back; an older witch Hermione did not recognize had been suspected purely because she always had an alibi.

 _It's really disgusting, the way they do this. They're only getting further away from real leads- if there even are any._

Working on her Transfiguration final, she looked up to see Padma proposing a bit of a study break, keeping her voice down.

"So, if you just want to do your work now, that's fine, I can help you with most of it..."

"What's on your mind?" she asked quietly, trying to be rude neither to her friend nor to the other people who were working.

"It's just that I heard you were looking for the Heir before you were, well, petrified for most of the term."

"Do you know something?" The answer to the question was perfectly apparent, but Hermione decided it would be polite to ask.

"Yes," the Indian witch responded, seeming to collect herself. "I was, well, really the whole time I was looking into who the Heir was, but I got caught up in a few of the things they're saying about him; well, it was all disconcerting."

"What?" she asked almost entirely uselessly. _As far as I know, she's not on the list. Salazar Slytherin had been in favor of only teaching pure bloods, but would accept half bloods. 'We'll teach just those whose ancestry's purest', I suppose. In any event she's safe, if what I know is true._

"Have you ever considered if there might be a reason for it all? The idea had me interested."

"Well, maybe, though you must have heard of class-exclusion before, though, it's just a mechanism of-"

"So you're saying they don't believe it." Hermione's eyes narrowed. She was aware of the academic challenge the philosophy of purism presented, and why Padma would be interested in it, but what confused her was how uncertain the other girl seemed.

"I don't know whether or not they believe it, it may simply be a convenient thing to believe, something where it does not really matter if it's true or not." She explained as she magically erased a few lines and redid them. "Even if they believe it, it is still probably not true."

"Well, how do you know it's not convenient for everyone else to believe it isn't true?" the other Ravenclaw asked. "What if we've got a perception of them that's colored by everything the Heir's done? The other Founders wrote that the Lord Slytherin was one of the greatest wizards of the day; they greatly respected him though they disagreed with-"

"The Heir isn't _tolerating_ dissent," Hermione answered curtly. "Just being here is a threat to their whole philosophy- I mean, logically there has to be a student with purer blood than I not getting the necessary attention I'm taking away, so he petrifies me in a bathroom- I can't imagine defending that-" She stopped herself before muttering anything improper.

"You can't base his being wrong on attacks against you," Padma continued more steadily. "Suppose you just happened to be in Berlin fifty years ago- would Britain be wrong in bombing the city if it cost you a leg? Secondly, he deliberately kept you alive and you know it."

"I doubt-" She could almost feel the gaze of the librarian fix on her. "I doubt that he did so out of the kindness of his heart," she continued in a whisper. "Voldemort himself kept me alive, and that man has _killed children_. I imagine the Heir shares his wish to keep Hogwarts open, though only with pure-blooded students, so killing me would have been out of the question."

"The monster could have just dragged your body down to the Chamber where no one would have found it. Three students have escaped; we have no idea if they're alive or dead and the school hasn't closed yet." Padma shook her head. "I'm not on their side or anything," she clarified. "I can even tell you what I've learned about the Heir and the Chamber."

Hermione said nothing in response. _If she's going to say something-_

"Have you ever heard of Parseltongue? It's not an easy language to learn, but the Heir is supposed to inherit the ability to speak it. This is how he can communicate with the basilisk and enter the Chamber through Moaning Myrtle's washroom."

"How did you learn this?" she asked in a neutral tone.

"It's more or less common knowledge in Slytherin. I've been talking with them- I gave Malfoy the most recent publication on nonmagical parentage. Apparently it relies on an outdated understanding of genetics." _Leave it to Draco to know everything about genetics- he's probably not wrong about that, given the way the textbooks are written._

"So you've been talking with him."

"Well, not like that," Padma deflected, evidently not realizing Hermione had been going nowhere with the assertion. "He thinks he knows who the Heir is now- it's been staring him in the face the whole time. I decided you had the right to know."

"Let me guess-"

"No, he doesn't think _he's_ the Heir, he was the first person he checked." She shook her head for some reason. "He's going to confront the Heir alone, though he has asked me to come along." _Interesting- I'll need reinforcements of my own._

"When and where?" she asked somewhat more loudly, hoping Hannah could hear.

"Myrtle's washroom at midnight, of course. Draco has a flair for the dramatic."

This particular comment caused Hermione to raise an eyebrow.


	27. Parseltongue in Thirty Days

Not for the first time, Hannah wished Ron had not been more or less permanently put out of commission. She had seen him with his injuries and curses, and it was a wonder he was even alive, though Hermione had expressed a belief that the Death Eaters had not wanted to kill a student. It had been at the same supper that her Ravenclaw friend had instructed her not to follow too closely, as she guessed she had been meant to come alone.

 _I guess she's learned her lesson about that._

"Do you have any other friends you can bring?" the other witch had asked her.

"No one I can really trust," she had answered, thinking of Susan for a moment before disregarding the idea. The other Hufflepuff was a nice girl, and always tried to be helpful, but she was also a pipeline to the Ministry through her aunt. If the Heir were discovered, it stood to reason that he should be arrested and tried, even though there was a good chance that he was a student. At the same time, it would be an opportunity to rifle through the secrets of Hogwarts if the Hit Wizards showed up at all. They had briefly arrested Hagrid before letting him out as the petrifications and deaths continued, though he was still under suspicion since knowledge of the monster came out. Essentially, as long as the basilisk could act independently, even if its master were arrested, the purification of the school would continue.

Grumbling about the assignments she still had to do after spending nearly the whole morning and afternoon studying, Hannah set off from the mysterious room where she kept most of her things with only Hermione's invisibility potion inside her cloak with her wand. Resolving not to drink it until she reached the destination, and then only if necessary, she checked the time on a mechanical watch she had borrowed from the end table on the right side of the queen size bed. The timepiece that read a time of eleven thirty was large and not terribly feminine, but its gold band was appropriate for her House and the mechanism would not be fried by Hogwarts warding, as she expected a digital watch would. Justin had brought an Elektronika 7 and according to Ernie it died before it could serve the intended purpose of waking him up for class the first day.

Daring not to cast the light charm, she reached the second floor despite the deliberate attempt by the stair to throw her off the trail. Shaking her fist back at the enchanted structure, she found the toilet in the dark, having been there more times than she would have liked already, perhaps by following her increasing sense of dread.

The ghost was absent from her usual haunt when the young witch entered, locking herself in a stall without drawing her wand. It was tempting to use the lock spell or perhaps a sticking charm, but she could not afford to make the noise, carefully stepping onto the toilet in a crouch. _I can't do a nonverbal spell, not now anyways. Perhaps when I'm a fifth-year, though there's a chance I won't ever get it. I could go my whole life and only know a few spells. Many people do._

Her contemplation was cut short with the ingress of Hermione, though she gave no sign of her presence. If they were being watched invisibly, it would be better that they saw her enter than that they saw her enter and some acknowledgement from the Ravenclaw, meaning the whole thing was planned. _As it is, it's unlikely that I was simply going out to this particular washroom in the dead of night, but not impossible._

Unable to see her borrowed watch as Draco and another set of footsteps entered, she did not know for certain what time it was when they greeted her friend, but she could be almost certain it was at least five minutes after midnight.

"Where is the Heir?" Hermione's voice asked, indicating that he was not with the blonde wizard. _It's possible she knows I'm in here somehow. Maybe she can see through things. Maybe-_

"It appears I am not the only descendant of Slytherin given to dramatic effect," the Malfoy scion started over the muted sound of masonry moving across masonry seamlessly. "Granger, Padma, this is Evan, my acquaintance through Theodore Nott," he explained as if they were all at some kind of formal gathering. _Well, the only reason we're not is because this is a toilet._

Evan did not speak. It seemed a moment passed where they all simply stared at each other, but Hannah remembered that could have been her imagination. It was more likely that they were all using nonverbal magic. _Wait, no, I have that backward._

"You commanded the monster?" Hermione's voice asked in an accusing tone.

"The basilisk knew what needed to be done," an entirely different one responded. "I told it not to kill anyone. You're welcome." It seemed he was their same age, though it was hard to tell. His manner of speaking was somewhat familiar. "And you were the one... petrified by my charge? I wonder how it felt, your filthy blood frozen in your veins-"

"Padma, you told me Malfoy had some intent to apprehend this... miscreant. There was meant to be a purpose to my presence here." Her tone conveyed rather efficiently that she had not come to be insulted.

"I'm afraid that it is you who has become ensnared, Granger. Padma, leave us." In the footfalls that followed Hannah realized it was more of a wind of fortune than anything. _If it comes down to a fight, at least it's even. Well, it's even in number._

" _Petrificus Totalus!_ " Hermione shouted as soon as the other Ravenclaw was out the door, having backed away slowly. Draco deflected the spell as Evan muttered something incomprehensible, an inhuman hiss in the form of speech. The stall door came open, but she only managed to provide a momentary distraction as a grey flash went in her direction, causing her vision to fade. Stumbling out blindly, she could not pay attention to her hearing well enough to know where her friend or enemies were; all she could hear was vague shouting. _If I can get in the way of another curse, at least it'll buy Hermione a second- what am I thinking, I could die-_

" _Petrificus!_ " She could not be quite sure if it was Draco's voice or his friend's, but she heaved herself across the room, colliding with the sink as it started to move with the masonry, sealing the entrance to the Chamber. _Evan must have been hiding in there- that isn't important now._

" _Expelliarmus!_ " her friend's voice rang out suddenly, though it was followed by a scream of her own. Hannah tried to _finite_ the curse on her eyes, but found it was either dark or just not so easily removed, a dull thump in the background. She stumbled toward the screaming as the enraged voice of the Malfoy heir sent a few jinxes after his fleeing target. Though she had expected attacks from the other, she did not hear his voice again as the running Hermione grabbed her wand out of her hand, getting out a quick 'sorry' before leaping to the side again as Hannah took a leg locker from Draco, who swore. Something Ron had said about _locomotor_ being one of the faster and harder to miss curses came to mind, though she lost the thought as she went to the ground. _If I can get him by the ankle-_ All of a sudden she saw a vision of her hand being severed by a quick cutter and drew it back - _I can't- I just can't-_ In her blindness maddening images of the Gryffindor lying in the Hospital Wing floated to the surface as his words drowned out the shouting around her.

 _"Well, 's alright, really. Sometimes I think about how much worse it would've been if I hadn't gotten involved."_

Hannah shut everything out as the sound of Hermione's flats went past her once more, an incantation going back over her shoulder. _Can't be more than two seconds-_ Sticking an arm across the width her friend had run to avoid stepping on her, she came into painful contact with Draco's legs, tripping him a moment. Swearing, he hit her with a cutter she had no hope of dodging before he screamed suddenly as a roar of flame surged.

At last a full-body bind ended the duel, whatever happened to Evan, or whatever his name was. A tearful Ravenclaw retrieved her own wand as she apologized incoherently, getting her out of the leg locker and holding her still. The cutter wound flared and the Hufflepuff winced and bore it as the wand traced its length with two attempts at a basic healing spell. Trying to get up, she found the potion bottle had cracked as she went into her robes to give it back.

"It's okay, Hannah, it's okay, I don't care about the potion- what's wrong with you? Please-" _She doesn't know what the curse did to me._ A million possible causes for the symptoms she had displayed ran through her mind, but she found the words to speak.

"I'm blind." At the sound of a gasp, she revised her statement. "I can't see. I don't know what it is. Where's Evan?"

"He's back in the Chamber- I hit him with- oh, it doesn't matter, I'm so sorry, Hannah."

"So he... got away-" _She did what she could._ She doubted she could have fought them both, even with the advantages of sight and a quickly closing entrance to the Chamber.

"We have to get you to Madam Pomfrey-" Hermione started after a failed attempt at lifting the curse. "Ron's brother is a curse-breaker by-"

"No, you have to go to the well," she interrupted in an odd moment of clarity. "You have to stop Evan from getting away."

"We can get someone on the way- I don't think I'm in any condition-" the other witch started as she led her unsteadily out the door. Her breath was ragged. _Maybe she really can't fight him-_ "You're more important-"

"I'm not more important- I'll get back eventually, just go, please, go after Evan." For a moment she imagined herself fumbling around in the dark, trying to get back either to the mysterious room or the Hufflepuff Basement, which was closer and required less time on the treacherous stairs. _I haven't a chance, not really- I couldn't find the Hospital Wing if I tried, but I'd have the same chance of running into someone as the both of us together would._ She doubted the place would be open, or that Ron could help them even if he were awake.

"Hannah, I'm really sorry about this."

Everything went dark.

 _Why did I not see this coming?_

Her dreams were memories of her old life before Hogwarts, a time when everything seemed simpler, yet so perfectly absent of wonder. It seemed like every day there were only a few ways she could imagine it ending- either she would be home before her mother and go to bed, childishly unwilling to wait for her, or she would get home and smell brandy, though more commonly it was a cheap wine- something sweet. She had written a story about a girl who goes home to that sort of thing for school once, and her teacher thought it was an interesting juxtaposition, a sweet wine for a woman turned somewhat sour in her mourning of a love gone by. He went on to say that it was clear to him the girl and her mother loved each other, though there were always problems in their lives. It was a more mature conclusion than she had reached years earlier, and one that took her a long time to accept.

Waking up at last under the care of Madam Pomfrey's voice as perhaps she should have guessed, she asked about Ron as soon as she could talk, learning that in his sleep he looked a little better than before, though she doubted they would let him out of bed any time soon. _With my curse, it'll be to keep me from hurting myself..._

According to the Healer the sky was still dark, though morning would come soon. She had heard nothing about Hermione, and this led her to the conclusion that the Ravenclaw had dropped her off anonymously, though possibly the matronly witch was simply denying having seen her out of bed. Though she liked her rules, it was possible that given the choice, she would err on the side of allowing students to bend school rules in order to help patients. In the interest of not scaring them away from bringing in injured or sick students, rules broken in the process would have to be ignored. It was a controversial position, but even if it were not allowed, she could get away with it just by feigning ignorance. _It's possible, but it's all based on something I've assumed._

Hannah sighed. The sun would come up soon, but she would remain in the dark.

Ron spoke to her, having been made aware of her condition to get out ahead of any conversational blunders he might make. In his thinking, she would be out of her blindness in short order, since his brother could fix 'most anything', and he had no expectation that what Evan used would be impossible to remove. He found it interesting that the boy was a Parselmouth, but it figured, since 'enough of them turn out bad anyway'. For a descendant of Salazar Slytherin, it should surprise no one that he was a purist, though really all that made him stand out was the innate ability to speak to snakes and a willingness to act on principles others were content to believe silently. He concluded that Malfoy would be jealous, since Voldemort would doubtlessly find a new favorite, if he kept a list of second-years ordered by preference. The Hufflepuff witch imagined a hand with long, slender fingers passing over names with glowing letters in a note pad, before pausing with momentary contemplation to move one name to the top.

She wanted to hope that the mysterious Bill Weasley would put her eyes right, but there were so many things that could go wrong, and none of them would stop playing out in her mind. One was a vision of a curse that would make her eyes pop out the moment that the first curse was broken. Not for the first time, she shook a fist blindly in the air, cursing the mysterious Evan for cursing her. In the time since learning he had chosen to escape through the Chamber, she decided he most likely thought little enough of the other Slytherin's chances of beating Hermione in the time it would take him to get back out, which she realized with a fist of her own to the forehead that this was the primary reason the Death Eaters had brought broomsticks to Hogwarts for the invasion. Between Ron and the rumor mill, she had put together that their youngest member had been in the Chamber and found his way out of it, working out how to get everyone else through the other way.

Remembering her studying, she had a sudden urge to go to the library, only she likely could not get there and if she could, she would find herself unable to read. There was a spell that read books aloud, though she doubted she would be able to use it. In light of recent circumstances not explained to her, Madam Pince was not allowing any books to be checked out. Sighing aloud, she resigned to waiting, though most of the information she needed had already been consumed, or so she thought. After a fashion, all that remained was to go to Saint Mungo's and explain it.

The end of the term was approaching quickly and she would be excused from exams, though upon regaining her sight she expected she would have to catch up. All that really remained was to go home, and past being led onto the Hogwarts Express and presumably being guided home by a teacher, she would be on her own for the summer. _My being cursed is not the responsibility of the school- they just have to catch Evan- wherever he went._

It was her understanding that the area around the well had been scanned, and there were no footprints leading away from it. Hagrid confirmed he had seen no broomsticks in the Chamber when he had been down there, and there was serious doubt the boy could have gotten out without one. After the invasion, a bitter older boy had confessed to cursing the bricks in the well to become slippery the moment they were grabbed. Though Hannah had not been apprised of his name, she had an inkling.

Sighing, she stopped wondering about Evan, unwilling to waste any more of her time thinking about a wretch like him, even if he turned out to be important. In any event, he was the Heir of Slytherin and now she expected she would be awarded more than a few House points for finding it out. There was serious doubt Hufflepuff would win, with the new distaste the students shared with Professor Snape, whom they would prefer thrown in Azkaban, for no other reason than having been a Death Eater, if one who had helped the school. An unsavory connection between him and the escaped boy had come out, so it seemed plenty of the students wanted the information beaten out of him if necessary. _He might end up like Creevey-_ her face turned to the end, where she had seen a small boy wrapped in bandages when she came in to visit Ron. The growing majority of her House had become so disrespectful toward the Potions master that he had suggested 'negative points' be introduced, which caused another row in the Basement, as she heard from Susan.

An image of her mind's invention of Hufflepuff coming in dead last, behind Filch who accidentally got a point when he swept up a spare sapphire, floated to the surface of her mind. Her House was resolute, vowing revenge, the other students looked on in a mix of concern and disdain. The visage of Albus Dumbledore would be quietly disappointed and Argus Filch baffled.

 _It may be the House where I was sorted, but it's not my home. It's not Neville's either, nor was it ever._


	28. Draco's Dramatics

Having disappeared from where he was expected to be, he had taken to exploring the Chamber to his heart's content.

Draco had not been fortunate enough to have Nott appear again to bail him out, but really it was no matter. After the last embarrassment, he had written his father for an enchanted amulet that would cancel curses. From what he knew, the essential difference between an amulet and a talisman was that the latter relied on the wizard to actively use it, while what he had requested had its own magic, like a Vanishing Cabinet or perhaps a broomstick. Macmillan, the Hufflepuff Crabbe and Goyle had beaten at his request knew something about enchantments and artefacts with their own magical properties and had been very much open to their questions.

He had found Evan down there, who apparently had no intention of escaping for the time being, having licked the wounds he sustained from the fall. To his surprise, the boy had found a pair of boots that could change a man's personal gravity to whatever flat surface they touched, or so it seemed. What they had been able to discover so far was that he could run up walls, which they found rather enjoyable, if in a puerile sense. It seemed every wall contained a secret stone that would reveal some marvelous treasure when Evan touched it, the enchanted blocks of masonry shifting into an alcove.

Evan appeared to enjoy having someone to help him puzzle out a few of the more difficult scrolls, as he seemed to know nothing of French or Latin, and Draco enjoyed apprising him of his magical heritage, which had apparently been a mystery to him. He was under orders from his father not to disclose his name, which was why the Deputy Headmistress had stopped reading from the list of names at the previous year's Sorting; having read an addendum not to call out Evan by his surname she must have decided not to read any of them.

The books, he decided, would well please his father, though there was the matter of getting them out. He could charm his trunk to be light enough, though he did not know the way to expand the interior, and his new friend was similarly lost. His magical ability mostly went as far as the occasional dark curse.

"How are we meant to get out of here?" Evan asked after his stomach growled. Having found the boy sleeping in the Chamber, the other Slytherin had expected him to be hungry, though he had not thought it would take so long. The boy was rail thin without his cloak, and his accent was of a working class variety. _I wonder if he has eaten a square meal in his life._ He had mentioned a father but not a mother, suggesting a nontraditional home environment, though Draco reminded himself the logicians of old would never forgive him for reaching that conclusion, when other explanations existed.

"I expect we shall use the boots, one at a time, though you will find yourself a wanted man. They know your name, or enough of it. Do you have any intent to return to Hogwarts?" he asked as he stared toward the door leading to what was called the Corridor of Secrets.

"The school is mine. When the Dark Lord returns to seize it, as you say, he will have to acknowledge my ancestry." _I may have left out something important._

"Be not content to assume as such," he responded, borrowing a phrasing from his father. "There was an American wizard who stated that ambition must be made to counteract ambition, and the entire continent's wisdom can be found in that idea." Evan appeared to consider it. In his own words, he had never left Britain, though that was his business.

The long haired boy seemed to get his meaning, though it might have been a chance to gain approval.

The well exit he had initially suggested had proved a fruitless endeavor, as both of them had slipped, though in their fall Evan managed to get a boot onto a secure place in the wall and the scion of the Most Noble and Ancient House of Malfoy hung on to him as they went back down. In the end, the simplest thing to do was go up alone, toss a broom and the boots down for his friend, and be on his way with the scrolls. Evan now knew how to find the Manor, where he could be sent to Beauxbatons or possibly Durmstrang to continue his education. Draco had personally ensured the boy had a proper understanding of purism, and the boy took to the idea well enough.

He knew not whether his new acquaintance made it out of the well with the broom, though he was thankful for that and the boots. _I suppose he could get out through the castle in the worst of cases. I highly doubt the old fool can monitor every inch of the place, though the Ministry will try._ Draco wondered when it would be time for him to follow Evan in his flight from the castle, as there was little doubt war would come to a head soon. However content Albus Dumbledore was to keep the wizarding world from choosing sides, the rest of the world would force the fence-sitters off their posts, half-bloods and traitors alike. With the Heir unsuccessful in purging Hogwarts, the mudbloods would number among them, though most of them would choose rather quickly. His father's voice rang out clearly in his mind.

 _Their world is a different one from ours._

He decided against igniting his wand, late though it was. He could manage in the dark.

 _They believe that the state should have a monopoly on force. Reason concludes it was easy, as each man lacks the innate power of a wizard._

All the same, he kept his wand out- however he would go about by day, he would not pretend he was not among enemies when he was not under the feeble protections of authority.

 _Their world is one that marches toward the loss of name, place, and meaning. For their lives that remain to them, they will fear at every turn._

The Baron nodded in his direction as he passed through the dungeon. He responded with a quick bow.

 _They will not live longer, Draco; they will die more agonizingly. Every technology exploited, no expense spared, all that the centenarians may see one hundred one._

The young Slytherin knew little of the Hogwarts ghosts apart from the Baron, and he was one who liked his secrets, which he respected. The Slytherin common room was mercifully empty, though the whole of the school had an empty look about it, what with students leaving when they could. He knew the Founders had built the castle to accommodate much larger crowds, through the magic of the structure itself, down to the spell-forms in the masonry. He had seen no small amount of secrets Hogwarts held, but of them he expected he had only seen a small fraction. _I suppose I could resolve to explore it all, but I have most of what I need._ The scrolls he carefully placed into his warded trunk, where he knew they would be safe until he needed them again.

His sleep was restless with hunger.

Having a hearty breakfast the following morning, he was bombarded with more questions than he cared to answer regarding his whereabouts the previous night, the Heir, and how he had evaded punishment. He delegated the bit about the amulet to Crabbe, since he had explained how it worked to that particular henchman once.

"He has an amulet that undoes curses and he used it to escape with the Heir." _Good, you did not reveal his name._

"My new friend opened the Chamber for me, just as the teachers were closing in on my location." _A little embellishment never hurt. I intend to earn my reputation, yet from time to time a tale more interesting has its merits._ In truth he heard voices, though he could not be sure whose they were. "We explored a moment, then I lent the Heir a school broom. He expects to be home by lunch." _The brooms have a charm to keep them from going too far, but you can take them out of the castle's warding. Nott can help Evan by gathering his things, though he will be going by the Express._ Draco had every expectation that the escapee would find some other way to the Manor, most likely through a Slytherin family of Scotland. In explaining the great family tree, he remembered having mentioned the Highland Gamps, who had ties to the House of Black and the dreadful Macmillan family, though they made up for it with Ulick Gamp being the first Minister of Magic. Between generations as they were, he knew of no one of their surname currently at Hogwarts, though it was possible he did not know everyone at the present. _Something I can remedy in the proximate future._

From his associates he learned the battle had gone none the better for the mudblood and the blood traitor, which might have brought a smirk to his lips, but emotion humanized him. His father had stressed the importance of ruling his face, lest it rule him. According to Goyle, the Hufflepuff's blindness was not something they could cure immediately, meaning whatever curse the Heir used was an effective one, worthy of more serious consideration. Nott explained he had been named by the Granger girl, which did not surprise him. _Even if the mudblood had no idea, her traitor friend would have pointed me out._

"They can't pin anything on me. The school would need Evan here to complete the investigation, and he's already at home a few hours." _That'll throw them off the trail. The Hit Wizards, the school, and everyone else will be going around to local properties, thinking he's already stopped. He'll be Flooed to the Manor soon enough._

"You were dueling with the blood traitor and the-"

"That's not the way Patil remembers it, Crabbe." His mind turned to the Hospital Wing a moment. "Has Creevey returned?"

"He has returned, but he has not spoken to me." _He's afraid, you damnable fool._

"Creevey can be returned to working order," Nott explained, interjecting. "With the proper motivation, we can avoid the same pitfall we had with Harper."

Draco's eyes threatened to roll back into his skull. It was an utter embarrassment, a pure blood like that deserting Hogwarts with a blood traitor and a rootless half-blood. _In first year no less- I am ashamed on father's behalf._

"What remains to be seen is how far he is willing to go," he decided. "We have seen that he was spirited enough, but it is an elephantine task to remain spirited while confined to a hospital bed after receiving punishment for failure. If that spirit returns, it must be tempered with discipline." He sighed, remembering something of himself. _Had it not been for dealing with Quirrell, I might have remained uninterested in matters of the world for years. I was undisciplined, seeking to prove myself in foolish ways. I raised an easy hand to the first-years because I saw something of myself in them._

"What of Pucey?" Nott asked. It was a worthy question. Something of an elder brother figure, Draco was loath to sever ties with him, but he was aware of the consequences. "He has not declared his allegiances."

"He has declared them by not declaring them." the Malfoy heir explained. "There is only one side remaining for those who do not cast lots with the Dark Lord." He looked away a moment, seeing the morning owl post come in. "All the same, he is by no means our first concern. It will not be suspect if I am seen with him, if only occasionally." _At this age, however, I should probably be seen with a witch once or twice._

Exams were upon them and most of the students had turned their thoughts to the succeeding year, though it seemed no one knew what would happen. Some were preparing rather fervently, others had a listlessness about them. A handful of the Slytherins openly discussed transferring to Durmstrang 'to better serve the cause', though it was apparent to all that Britain was the battleground. Much of the world was not on the same tipping point, where magic would either be saved or left to rot.

The latter was quite clearly the case with parts of the continent, where magic had essentially retreated into the woods and fields, though the nobility was blessedly strong in France, if not Germany. What few lords remained were concentrated around Nurmengard in Muggle Austria, though things improved in the southeast. As far as he knew, there was no clear divide where magic was being defended by Secrecy and purism, and where it was being undermined- the whole of Europe was a powder keg in all directions. Russia was only just re-entering the political fray, finding that their old friends were either with them to the end or already turning against them. The tenuous and volatile situation had garnered support for more hiding, more warding, more regulation and more pointless diplomacy.

In India, by contrast, the wizards developed magic in different people by the wisdom of their caste system, with each doing his most productive and proper job. The great summoners had the greatest privileges, though their responsibilities were not to be envied, greater even than the warrior caste, wizards born for battle to defend the land in the event of an invasion. Though the 'untouchable' caste was not well regarded, the people lived a carefree life of simple magic, working all day and sleeping all night. It was his understanding that they believed all this was just due to the gods and whatnot, and he supposed it was better that they did, but were he running the country he would run it the same way for the sake of efficiency.

Neighboring Burma was on the brink of war, as just recently the Muggle military government had refused to cede power despite its loss in the nineteen ninety elections, the first of their kind since the sixties. Fudge's plant among the revolutionaries was insisting that things remain peaceful, lest the war-shamans of old come out of the woodwork with the Earth Elephants, magical creatures men of old had learned to ride, to devastating effect. He had little doubt they would have their country, but Secrecy would be over in a matter of hours.

What troubled him was that apparently the Dark Lord had written a letter instructing his armies exactly how to respond to the crisis.

The owl landed in the afternoon, after his final classes were over, her silver talons carrying a letter that was almost certainly from the family patriarch, though it carried specific instructions to destroy it after reading it, suggesting that if the master had not sent one to Draco himself, he was not meant to read it. With a momentary uncertainty, he remembered his prior loyalty was to his father despite the undeniable power and presence of Lord Voldemort. He waited until night fell before opening the unsealed missive, barely able to speak to anyone.

 _Lords Malfoy, Yaxley, and Selwyn,_

 _Your participation in the East will not be required, which suits my designs, as your presence in Britain is perfectly crucial. As I value your newfound loyalty, I shall address your concerns regarding the tipping point. Both Kyanzittha and U Sao Aung have requested subtle magical support, though I suspect what they need is something bolder. Interests in the Ministry that know of my existence believe I intend to make my presence known, and the red herring they expect will be a sighting of Rowle's Dark Mark in Yangon. Wiser men than they believe I shall follow the rules, yet they forget the greater magical liberty we may expect. Consider the Kashmir incident._

 _Azkaban can be broken without my personal involvement; you will not fail me._

At this point Draco decided the Dark Lord was dictating the letter to someone else, most likely Gibbon. He dismissed the thought.

 _Our old friends are necessary for more than the terror they threaten. The Lestranges alone will be enough for the blood traitor families; the Aurors will find the peasants they command equally... passionate and significantly greater in number. The Dementors will join us, and the rest of our natural allies can be gathered by Macnair, as necessary. Azkaban will be of great promise to our purposes in more ways than we allow our enemies to expect._

Tossing the letter and levitating it to the fireplace, he exhaled as if for the first time that day.

It was at times like these that he was painfully reminded of how little he knew, contrary to what he believed he knew. He was grateful for the mental beating, of course, as it was not the first time he had thought of how differently he could have ended up had the Dark Lord not returned, or not returned so soon as he did.

For one thing, he would never have met Padma.

In their final shared Defense class, conducted by a pensive Headmaster, he had shared a few words with her as they practiced basic shields. His a translucent wall of silver light, and hers round and bronze, they made effective tools for sound proofing, and there was serious doubt anyone was rifling through their heads. The old fool at the head of the class would never allow it, and he had gone over some beginner's Occlumency with his father in order to recognize when the mind arts were being practiced.

"Draco..." The witch bit her lip a moment, but dropped the expression almost immediately. _If I had to guess, she is determined not to lose composure again as she had in front of the mudblood._ "Most of the Ravenclaws have heard my bit. They haven't been jumping on the idea, but..."

"It's a start," he interpreted confidently. _When we have Ravenclaw and Slytherin, we have Hogwarts before long- the Gryffindors are impulsive and the Hufflepuffs can be manipulated._ "I need to thank you, Padma." _When we have Hogwarts, we have hostages for magical families across the United Kingdom._ A quick glance told him the professor was taking reserved delight in helping a boy with a wandless shield. "You alone have been able to sort out the truth from fiction." _When we have hostages, we have more support in the Wizengamot._ It seemed the girl realized what was happening, which was well. "You are a credit to your House."

Draco kissed her briefly before returning to his shielding.


	29. Last Day of School

In perhaps the greatest injustice of the last few minutes, Ron was taking his exam in his sickbed.

"Of all the rotten luck- 'least I get a bit of extra time." Elsewhere he expected Hermione was already finished with her practice Transfiguration exam, though he was only finished with the first few questions of the real thing.

 _What is the difference between transfiguration of the magical out of the mundane and enchantment of Muggle artefacts to engender magical properties?_

 _̶M̶y̶ ̶d̶a̶d̶ ̶w̶o̶n̶'̶t̶ ̶a̶r̶r̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶f̶o̶r̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶f̶i̶r̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶e̶ ̶a̶f̶t̶e̶r̶ ̶f̶i̶g̶u̶r̶i̶n̶g̶ ̶o̶u̶t̶ ̶h̶o̶w̶ ̶y̶o̶u̶ ̶d̶i̶d̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶_

 _The time it takes for the normal thing to go back to normal is based on weight in transfiguring and the nature of the enchantment in the latter._

 _What is Arabesque's Law of Complexity?_

 _̶T̶h̶e̶ ̶m̶o̶r̶e̶ ̶c̶o̶m̶p̶l̶e̶x̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶,̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶c̶l̶o̶s̶e̶r̶ ̶i̶t̶ ̶i̶s̶ ̶t̶o̶ ̶t̶h̶e̶ ̶t̶e̶s̶t̶ ̶o̶n̶ ̶i̶t̶.̶  
_

 _As the complexity of the transfiguration increases, the time required increases._

Staring down at his previous answers, he sighed and skipped to an essay question regarding the simple arithmancy required for transfiguring multiple forms into multiple forms of a different number. _Seventy five percent sure it's the first number multiplied by the second number determines the complexity value, then that over the product of the weights gives you the time factor._ He took a drink of healing potion and nearly gagged. _Well, more like fifty percent._ Setting the vial down again, he hit the quill with a repair charm. _Fifty-ish._

Earlier that day he had had a visit from Hagrid, which was only allowed under the condition that he was the only visitor, and Hannah was pleased to hear his voice. Apparently she had taken an interest in Dementors and their ability to draw memories out involuntarily.

"Yeh don't want ter go messin' with them, Hannah," the mountain of a man said quietly. Ron's face changed, having expected him to be fascinated by the monsters. "Most things, people, yeh see people fear 'em 'cause they're different. Interestin' creatures like grindylows're no harm to wizards if yeh keep yer wits about yeh, same with kelpies, trolls, dragons even. Don't harm 'em and they'll do no harm ter you."

"The Dementors are different?"

"I've seen 'em, darlin'. Nothin' in the world could get me to... look at one ever again. Can't contain 'em, can't trust 'em, not even to follow ther instincts, 'cause they don't have any, and yeh can't kill 'em. Just about the only creature, being, or thing yeh'd ever want to- and yeh can't get 'em out o' the way fer good." Ron remembered Hagrid having recounted his brief time in Azkaban. Having asked his father about the short sentence, he learned it was most likely a nominal punishment to scare him away from further law-breaking.

It was after a vague description of the tall, vaguely humanoid figures that the grounds keeper moved on to less serious matters, like the Red Caps being happy that their names had been cleared- or they would, if he knew of any in the Forest. Perhaps it was simply that Red Caps in general were happy about it, having always been suspected for things that they would never do. It was great fun, really.

The pair of them were visited by the Fat Friar, who also seemed determined to raise Hannah's spirits, telling her about snooping around in the kitchens for some reason. Her questions of him mostly had to do with the paintings of Hogwarts, which he supposed must still be a fascinating concept for her, since they imitated life in a way unlike Muggle film.

He might have been bitter about the fact that most of the visitors had been for the Hufflepuff across him thus far, though he supposed she needed it more. _Reckon it's not easy for her, being blind. Can't say I know what it's like._

It occurred to him that he also did not know what Dementors were like, which was fine by him. _I've got enough problems._

Ron was finished with most of the ones on the Transfiguration exam by the time Madam Pomfrey returned, though she had nothing new to tell him regarding his condition or the visitors he was allowed. His twin brothers had been permanently banned from the Hospital Wing, which was reasonable, but it did nothing to raise his spirits. He had hoped to apologize to them for forcibly roping them into his plan, but would be unable to do that as long as he did not see them.

He found his Charms exam on the foot of his bed, scowling that his condition allowed him to forgo practical demonstration of magic, which was where he had hoped to make up points he expected to lose on explaining the theory. _What I need is a curse that keeps me from explaining things._

Looking across the room at Hannah, staring up at the infinite darkness, he turned back to his work with a frown. He expected Hermione would comment on the benefits of thinking before speaking if she were there, and an accomplished Legilimens.

 _Please explain, to the best of your ability, the casting time of spell types, in order of shortest to longest._

 _The shortest are jinxes, followed by hexes and charms, which are really the same, if you think about it. The second slowest are curses, then enchantments._

He considered elaborating that these were generalities, and that there were faster and slower spells of each category, but the succeeding questions seemed to acknowledge that. _At least I can understand this._

 _When, logically, is the appropriate time to cast a charm?_

 _You cast a charm when you can. If it takes more time to cast than you have, you should move or get behind cover rather than use the wrong jinx just because it's faster._

While the question did not specifically ask about a combat scenario, it seemed obvious enough. A common criticism of Charms he heard from a few of the older students was that they weren't going to stand around waving their wands when killing curses were coming after them. _It's just their way of calling it a useless class. At least Flitwick takes the idea of a free response question literally._

 _How may a witch or wizard tell if a form has been charmed?_

 _He or she can't. Charms leave no obvious signs. Their effects can be explained by other means._

It was something he remembered the old half-goblin going over rather diligently in class. It was a common assumption that if you forgot something, you must have been hit with a memory charm, but if you thought about it, the idea was silly. Of course, if you were hit with one you would forget things, but it didn't work the other way around. There were times Ron wondered how much Professor Flitwick was trying to teach them Charms and how much he was trying to teach them logic.

After finishing with his second exam, he considered moving on to Defense, but remembered hearing from his father that as Lockhart was being discredited in the Ministry, there was a chance the scores would not be counted. _There's also a chance I don't get an easy O for this stupid class._

It was true that he hated the professor before it was a common rumor among the students that he was a fraud, which he was quick to believe, but Ron had legitimate reasons for hating the class. He had come to school with every intent to acquire magical knowledge and experience almost for the sole purpose of protecting Ginny and the new professor had been a spectacular disappointment in that regard. Independent learning seemed to be the focus of the class out of incompetence rather than a specific teaching philosophy, though he reckoned retrospectively that the only reason he had arrived at that conclusion was his particularly uncharitable perspective of the instructor. _Not like he deserved a charitable perspective._

The questions on the exam mostly revolved around Lockhart's life experiences, which he supposed was at least true to the class, but the fact made it more likely that the scores would be thrown out. He decided to hope that if there were an investigation, they would look into both the class and the exams, and not one or the other.

 _What is Gilderoy Lockhart's favorite instrument?_

 _The school governors are all his favorite instrument together._

He decided against crossing it out. _Worst they could do is mark it wrong and I don't remember the answer anyway._ His books were next to him and the one other resident of the Hospital Wing would be quite unable to report him for anything, but he doubted he could stomach reading them again. Copying off Hermione went against Weasley principle as well, but at least it was time-efficient. _I'd do it more often if we were near each other- and she'd let me._

 _What spell did Gilderoy Lockhart use against a vampire?_

 _He used a memory charm to trap it in a room of all mirrors._

It was a story that did not seem terribly plausible as he was reading it, but it was more plausible than the instructor's reasoning for constantly referring to himself in the third person. _Objectivity my arse-_

Ron went on to the next question.

 _Where does Gilderoy Lockhart, world traveler, feel most at home?_

 _On an adventure, of course._

The truth was that he had contradicted himself several times on that point. From the most charitable perspective he could manage, the young Gryffindor imagined that he simply did not have a consistent answer, though in his mind the more likely explanation was that it allowed for a bit of flexibility in the grading. If the students came up short of where they were supposed to be, a few points could be added. If they came up ahead of where they were meant to be, a few could be subtracted.

The remainder of the exam followed the form of the first three questions without variation, though there was an opinion essay question requiring him to explain the most interesting part of Lockhart's adventures. Partly because it required no research at all and partly because it very well might be the only true part, Ron chose to write about his adventures at Hogwarts, defending the Chamber of Secrets by shielding himself with enemy combatants. It was a challenge to emphasize the wizard's bravery, at first, so he turned it into a tale of sacrifice. _No need to specify that it was a sacrifice he wouldn't have been willing to make- if Snape had given him more than two choices._

His final for Potions had been entirely practical, with no written component, so technically he had gotten out of it entirely. _Don't reckon Snape'll be pleased, but there probably isn't anything he can do about it. If only I could get out of my Astronomy and History of Magic exams the same way._

Unfortunately for him, the exams were entirely written, but his curses got him out of having to do all of them on the same day, which was the normal procedure. He supposed he could cheat by helping Hermione for a change, since she would be taking all of her exams the following day, including those he had already completed. Her studying regimen this year was comprised of practice exams she had made for herself, though having looked at them, he had an idea that they were much harder than the final actually was.

Trying to get out of bed, he managed to get his feet to the ground, but putting pressure on them was a different matter entirely. His legs were really no better, so riding a broom would be out of the question. He had an idea that his physical wounds had mostly healed if not fully, and it was the curses causing him pain, though he could not be sure what with the bandages still all over him. _I reckon if Madam Pomfrey keeps me thinking I'm injured as long as possible, that's longer I don't come back injured again._

As a distraction from Hermione's exam material, he had looked into indefinite curses, which only showed how desperate he was getting for relief from the core subjects. As near as he could reckon, the curses he had would not go away until broken, which was the standard advantage with curses, though there were those with only temporary effects. Counting them and trying to figure out what they all were had been a pain, because every time it seemed he had an idea of one, Hannah suggested something else. He knew better than to hate her for it, since she could be right and had nothing better to do, but it made the process more frustrating. He had hoped to discern what the effects were to provide Bill with an advantage going in. It was easy enough with the Hufflepuff across from him, since she knew she only got hit with one curse, and it was pretty obvious what it was.

"Hey Hannah."

"Yeah?"

"Sorry I got you into all this."

"That's okay. At least your brother can fix my blindness," she responded, sitting up in bed as if to look at him while talking. "I don't plan on getting out, you know."

"Well, no, that's just what you have to do when you're in it. Someone like- I don't know, Parvati could just say 'well, it's not my job' and never be in it in the first place." He adopted a downcast expression, hoping it would not show in his voice.

"Would you think any less of me if I just left?" the blonde witch asked, her voice sounding sincere.

"What?"

"I've been doing some thinking about it after some of the things you said. You didn't seem to hold it against Hermione or Anthony for leaving."

"Well, no, it's not their fight-"

"Is it yours?"

"I involved myself, Hannah- it's all you have to do." He exhaled, frustrated without direction. "I don't want to get into all the stupid stuff I did last year that got me into all the business with Quirrell- I can't ask other people to risk their lives. I don't expect them to, not even if they've got some dumb reason like I do."

Hannah stared out into nothing, without any way of knowing she was not facing him directly, and for a moment he felt like moving into the way.

"Well, maybe you don't have to be involved. Maybe you don't have to expect more of yourself than you expect of anyone else."

"Part of it's that I have a stake in it. My family's been here for centuries- I don't know how long, longer than I'd be bothered to find out. Really, though, I think it's heroic of Hermione to keep at it," he added quietly. "The less you have to do with something, the more- I don't know, selfless it is to try to help. Do you have any brothers or sisters?"

"No," Hannah responded simply. "I think I get it, though. You wouldn't really expect anyone else to look after Ginny, even though it would be the right thing to do." She exhaled, still not facing him. "When it seems like people don't really have...standards...principles, I don't know, things you would imagine they would have, it doesn't make sense to expect them to do the right thing. I'm sorry if your sister is a bit of a sore spot for you. I don't know, but I can imagine..."

Ron did not know how to apologize for what had come over his friend, how absolutely crushed she looked, whatever losing battles were going on inside her mind, or perhaps her soul. All the same, it seemed like the right thing to do.

"Hannah-"

"Please don't apologize," she interrupted, guessing it somehow. "It's not your fault. None of this is your fault- if anything's your- responsibility, it's only a millionth of as much your responsibility as it is everyone else's-" the girl trailed off again.

For a moment it felt like either she would leave the room or he would. The red-haired wizard could not identify a reason why; that was simply what you did when things got like this- perhaps to think about something else, perhaps to let the other person think about something else, perhaps simply to move on, taking a step in a less painful direction. He could not count all of the times things had played out that way, all of the times he had left Hermione or she had left him on an unpleasant note, not because they wanted to leave it like that, but because the displeasure made them want to leave, and if the worst occurred and they left it like that, at least they would see each other again soon. It was for this reason that the last time he had seen anyone so crushed was when he looked in the mirror in a washroom after hearing that she had been attacked, possibly killed.

Hannah could not see, so he put his feet back on the ground and forced himself to them. _I'll find Hermione. I'll have to keep the door quiet as I leave._


	30. Home Alone

It was not the fault of either Dr. Granger that Hermione would be navigating from the terminal in London to their house, and as far as they knew, there was nothing at all wrong with it. Her letters to them had been devoid of information about what was happening at school; their main purpose in the beginning had been to get them to call off the search for her. There was no need to worry about her having been kidnapped, she had just run into some friends of a boy in her class and after an encounter with the Ministry, she decided to go with them to school. Following being revived from petrification, her letters took on a similar tone, insisting that she had been studying. What surprised her was that her parents had not been contacted regarding her state, though she supposed there were many other concerns to be addressed at the time and owling them would do nothing except worry them because there was precisely nothing they could do about it.

It occurred to the Ravenclaw that she was lying outright in her second set of letters where she had been dancing around the truth before, but she struggled to find any moral difference between the courses of action. She eventually concluded that she had just been unwilling to lie to her parents and most likely just created an excuse so that she could keep them from worrying, probably ineffectively, and get out of the ordinarily requisite disappointment with herself.

"At some point I just have to accept that going to school is more important than being honest with them. Even if I didn't lie outright, I wasn't being honest with them," she had said aloud, alone in the dark of the mysterious room though she was. Hannah had been right in her suspicions; she found it quite fascinating. She remembered looking around a bit, trying to figure out how the magical properties of the room worked before reaching the unpleasant conclusion regarding dishonesty. "As long as I'm trying to deceive them, it doesn't matter what I say specifically."

The train home was lacking both Ron and Hannah, not to mention Anthony, so she decided to find a compartment and lock it, since she had long since decided against sitting with Padma. Giving a frustrated sigh out into nothing, she was forced to remind herself that the girl was only believing something she thought was a valid, sound argument, and she had only gotten frustrated herself because of the stakes, as well as the small amount of research she had done herself. She stared darkly out the window and pictured Azkaban, from what she had read of the place. Hermione knew how horrid it was, and how some of the Death Eaters were there, after all the years it had been since the war. _I hope they never get out. If anyone does anything like what they did, they deserve it._

A bolt of lightening cracked over the sound of the rain outside and she turned back to her schoolbag, getting out a few books. She had done well on her exams by her own estimation, but she would really only be satisfied if she did perfectly. _I suppose there will always be some who call me zealous, but it's better that than ignorant._ It had been a long process to realize the previous summer that most of her life she had actually wasted time studying more than was required, and it had been a longer process in realizing that in the previous conclusion, she had essentially de-legitimized her preference for high grades, or perhaps the acquisition of knowledge, whichever was more important to her.

Frowning as she tried to turn her attention to her books, Hermione decided to let the matter rest for the time being with the concession that her previous conclusions may not have always been correct or even correctly motivated, but her preferences were legitimate reasons for studying, which was objectively good besides. As if to spite her, the book she had open was about Potions, something she had stressed over studying for several hours at least. It had been a difficult exam, having to brew a Tincture of Transparency, though the mood was somewhat lightened by Goyle taking a drink of the alcohol before using it in the potion. She was relatively sure he passed, but it was not worth investigating whether or not that was due to Professor Snape's 'assistance'. It was worthy of note that the teacher had been oddly fair lately, though Ron had not commented on it. _If he said anything, he would only said that he was covering up his interest in the dark arts by paying more attention to his potions classes and his support for the Death Eaters by pretending to be fair._ It was a possible conclusion, but a deliberately uncharitable one, though she supposed it was uncharitable to assume he would draw it.

Breaking her concentration in her reading, a rapping at her compartment door rang out. _I suppose I should not ignore it._ Standing, she first looked out the window to see Ernie Macmillan, alone.

"Hi," she said curtly as she magically unlocked and opened the door, deciding that at least he was not one of Draco's manservants- _or maidservants, I suppose._

"Hi, Hermione. I would like to comment that among the Hufflepuffs, yours has become an admirable story of heroism under fire. We no longer suspect you of the use of dark magic," he announced cordially, seemingly out of nowhere.

"I see," the witch responded, momentarily nonplussed. "What led you to this conclusion?" _I could ask what led them to the first conclusion, but I shall just be disappointed with the answer._

"It has come to our attention that you and our own Hannah Abbot discovered the identity of the Heir of Slytherin and one who provided aid to him. After lengthy debate, we have come to the conclusion that no one on the wrong side of history would be so inclined." _There are problems with that, but they need not be explained. Firstly, I could have simply unmasked Evan as a means of self-protection, secondly, I could have gotten him out of my way to have the Chamber all to myself-_

"I'm glad," she decided simply. _If they're not suspecting me, at least Hannah's off the hook with them- mostly. It doesn't matter that they stopped for a stupid reason. I don't know how it entered someone's head that I could have been a blood purist, especially after being petrified by the basilisk._

"If it pleases you, we would like you and our own Justin Finch-Fletchley to appear at the Wizengamot summit on the Victims of Blood Purism." Hermione stared unblinkingly as she chose her words carefully.

"That sounds interesting. I'll have to know when it is, of course, as I have plans this summer. Do you know who is hosting it?" _I really need to know whose idea it is- this smells like Ebony-_

"The date is to be set based on the convenience of the witnesses," Ernie answered unhelpfully, perhaps deliberately so. "Our friend Electrum will be nominally leading the discussion, though the intention is for this to be an open forum, not initiated by any particular member or members of Hufflepuff House, but rather a rising concern that has become impossible to ignore. Even the Slytherins and their Head of House do not ignore it; they have already taken a side- the same one, I might add." The young wizard's way of speaking seemed to give him the makings of a politician, more so than any Slytherin she had met. _Ron will be delighted to hear it._

"I'm sure no one's ignoring it," she responded without emphasis. _The message he's trying to put through is that whatever side the Slytherins take, I should obviously take the opposite one. Fortunately for me, that only works when there are only two sides._ "As for taking sides, I've given it a lot of thought and I can't be on Ebony's side after she and Gabriel used the fire charm and jets of water to torture information out of me."

Silence lingered a moment before looking at a nearby timepiece and leaving.

"As stated, you have been cleared of suspicion of using dark magic." _Wasn't I only under suspicion of researching it?_

"So you've forgiven me? Why should I forgive you?" Hermione asked as if there were an answer to the question. The Hufflepuff exhaled, his eyes shifting.

"Ebony is no longer part of the student body. She has been expelled and removed from the-"

"Yes, she's not in the castle, all thanks to a Headmaster you've denounced, but she's still welcome in your group, isn't she? If she came back, everything would be fine, right?" The Ravenclaw was aware that she had given up on being able to act like she was neutral to the conspiracy, but the injustice of the roused memories was crying out the clearer.

"Ebony had her own methods that were not necessarily representative of the rest of us. Whether or not she would be accepted if she came back is unimportant because she can't come back, and is therefore not a threat to anyone at Hogwarts," he explained. "In the process of making Hogwarts safer, there are certain lines we cannot afford not to cross, and it is best to be prepared to take necessary measures. I admonish you that we have never killed anyone, while the other side does so readily." To close, he took a look back as he turned to the compartment door. "If forgiveness is a virtue of yours, it would be better for all of us if you would overlook past errors, and I believe it would demonstrate maturity."

Taking stock of Ernie's veiled insults as he left, what seemed to stand out the most was the accusation that she was childish. _That's an unexpected insult from one thirteen year old to another._ Hermione reminded herself she was really contending with Ebony, or perhaps Electrum now. Younger students usually tried to emulate their elders, and matters would be made worse in the conspiracy. Logical leaps seemed to come with the territory; it hardly surprised her how the boy went from 'children and the childish refuse to cross lines' to 'only children and the childish refuse to cross lines'. _I wonder if he'll ever realize it's just as impossible to even discuss things with him as it is with Padma._

All of a sudden the idea of losing her friend made her internal organs twist. She had not been as close as Neville, not even as close as Anthony, but she had been one of her fellow Ravenclaws, one of her first friends. She did not envy Ron and Hannah, since they hardly fit in with their House friends either, but she lost Padma only after learning who she was, learning about what she valued and what motivated her. It was impossible to hate her, at least for Hermione it was, she could only feel betrayed, clutching her robes over her heart, grazing her wand handle.

As if to worsen things further, she heard another knock at the door and she came to the conclusion it would be another former friend, still with the same appearance, the same voice; the same smile.

She looked through to see a Ravenclaw boy named Terry.

"Hi," Hermione said as she opened the door. She doubted she would have opened it for anyone else. Even the Gryffindor girls were starting to get like Seamus, sharpening pitchforks and planning the attack. She admired their courage in the face of a greater enemy, some of them even recognizing that they had more than one, but for her that ship had sailed. Rational boldness could sustain her if she needed it, but the hot blood of bravery was something she had not felt in a long enough time to forget what it was like.

"Do you know what's come over Padma?" he asked. _Well, I should have guessed he would be talking to her._

"I have an idea, why?"

"Well, she's been talking to the rest of us a lot. You've been, well, unavailable, but every week it's something new about blood purism. Has she broached the subject with you?" _It's a fair question. On one hand, it's something awkward to bring up around me. On the other, we were supposed to be friends, at least in a way._

"Yes. She's been talking with Malfoy if that's what you're wondering. Has anyone been listening to her?"

"Mostly she was just talking about it as an idea, not really trying to persuade anyone." _Clever._ "After you were attacked, she was quiet for a while, then she started bringing it up again. Most of the older students have been ignoring her, but Anthony actually got pretty pissed about it. There was once when he told her that if she brought it up again, he'd kill her."

"That sounds like something he would say, after all that's happened." _He knows it's prejudicial to assume she's working for the Death Eaters, but her life is worth the risk to him._

"After he disappeared, she brought it up again, and there was a row- some first-year got a black eye for asking why we were afraid to look into it." He sat down across from her, his leg shaking involuntarily as his eyes widened. "Hermione, I'm not a blood purist- but I don't support that kind of thing."

"I don't either." _I'd prefer that first-years aren't struck in the face, generally._ "What are you-" _Don't tell me you're starting a new faction-"_

"Whatever you and Ron are doing, I want in. Start of next year, whenever, I don't care, we get together, we _defend Hogwarts_. The Death Eaters aren't done- they'll have more minions and if it isn't a bunch of dark wizards it'll be the Ministry. After Gabriel died, we had an official warning, even though it was his own damn fault-"

Hermione laughed in spite of herself, in spite of everything. Terry stared at her blankly.

"Ron's going to like you," she managed, looking up at his confused face a moment, her hand raised to her mouth. "Don't worry about it. I'm sure there will be others." _I hope there will-_ "We didn't really mean for it, but finding the Heir has to attract some attention."

"I've heard a bit about you," the boy explained, confirming an aspect of her suspicions. "Nothing good out of the Hufflepuffs, which technically doesn't mean good things about you, since they also hated-"

The girl laughed again, breaking up the conversation and turning it to less serious matters before the train arrived at the station. Remembering the last time she had arrived at the station with a mote of shame, she waved a goodbye to her fellow Ravenclaw before setting off for home. London was not impossible to navigate, but there had been the occasional report of Death Eater activity, the evasion of which was her controlling interest. Drinking an invisibility potion before passing through the barrier, she was grateful she had used a spell Anthony had shown her to shrink her trunk. It was the last brew she had available to her, though that was of little issue since her parents told her they would be traveling to France for the summer. In previous years she would have been excited to learn all she could, since she could speak and read a little of the language, but presently the reason for her positive reaction was that the vacation would make her more difficult to locate.

 _I doubt the Death Eaters have more questions for me- from the sound of it, they mostly had what they wanted regarding the Stone- unless they want to know about other possible uses for it._

Skirting around the mass of people in King's Cross, it occurred to her that she was back among normal people, though she was uncertain as to whether or not she could regard them as 'her own kind'. If they were normal, she was not, and though she doubted she would be snatched up and used for experiments if anyone found out, they would not regard her as normal, and therefore she would not be one of them. People would be curious, of course, scientists and doctors would want to know about her abilities and how they fit into the laws of physics, though first they would go to her parents to check to see if the whole thing was genetic, since people do not normally display magical tendencies. Logically, both of them would be subjected to a DNA test, though the mere existence of magic might call into question whether or not DNA and genetics were even valid, since there she was, doing things the same people said to be impossible. Her school supplies would point to the existence of the world of wizards and trolls and dragons, and there would be no telling how the magical would react.

If Secrecy were lost, Voldemort and his Death Eaters would doubtlessly go on an unchecked rampage, with nothing left to lose by doing so. Reading the minds of world leaders, using potions to impersonate them, and memory charming everyone who remembered it differently might not be a permanent foothold in the normal world, but it would put a wizard at the controls to nuclear weapons, which would soon be flying in all directions, while the magical world was safely tucked away in impossible spaces. It would deplete the food resources, but as she understood it there were rustic wizards taking care of that- at the beck and call of the aristocracy, of course.

A woman in a black fur passed her and Hermione gave her a somewhat wider birth, keeping from making eye contact.


	31. Epilouge: Experimental Magic

Neville tried to keep a straight face as the Healers explained everything that had happened over the last year.

He had been insane.

It was entirely impossible for him to wrap his mind around it, but it was the truth, it was incontrovertible, there was no way around it. He had been insane, his mind destroyed by dark magic. To him, there had been no difference, he had no awareness that anything had taken place, but the wizard in front of him nodded as if he had expected it, given the treatment method. Neville was sure for nine in ten that he had not been told what the treatment method was. He could not find his Remembrall.

"Do you remember your name?" the old wizard asked, looking only at the pad and quill he was using.

"I'm not that bad," he muttered, upset that someone would think he was that forgetful. _Well, I guess they did just cure my insanity._

"Do you remember your father's name?"

"My parents are Frank and Alice Longbottom."

"Who is your best friend at Hogwarts?"

"Silver." The Healer's brow furrowed, but he wrote it down. "Sorry, his proper name's Draco Malfoy."

"What is your favorite class?"

Neville thought about the answer for a while. "Herbology, I guess- maybe Flying, though I'm rubbish at that."

The wizard wrote more than what looked like his answer, though he supposed it was possible he had never been writing his answer.

"You remember nothing that happened after being cursed?"

"No, sir, just waking up here. It might come back, I don't know. Things I forget don't usually come back."

The Healer left him to his thoughts a moment, perhaps having something to discuss with the others.

It felt like a flood of information, learning about things that had gone on at Hogwarts. He had wondered how the older wizard had learned all of it, since he didn't think most people outside the school knew every detail about what was going on, but as the Healer went on he kept making reference to a friend of Neville's who had been instrumental in the inspiration and part of the process itself that led to the cure of his insanity. That part at least made sense. He could wrap his head around a guilt-stricken Draco doing everything he could to help him.

The summary of everything that happened at school, however, shocked him to his core. As the wizard spoke he kept asking him to slow down and explain things, feeling a little bad about it since as a professional he would want to get on to the questions he had prepared, but it was just too unbearable to just gloss over everything. He had been frightened when he heard about what had happened to Hermione, and he had been concerned for Ron and Hannah when he learned that neither of them had been able to go home, at least not until their curses were undone, but the Healer decided to let them talk about their grievances and how they got them.

Neville rose from the bed for the first time in a year, as they told it. In the corner of the room there was a destroyed painting, not much left besides the frame and what looked like cinders. The chairs that had been in the room were not there, as he could tell by the marks on the floor. His wand was on the end table, and it shook a moment as he looked at it. His eyes widened, the world seemed to stand still, and the wand stopped moving as he blinked. Years, decades of difference between him and his father's wand seemed to make themselves visible, grey spellfire in the air a moment before disappearing, as if it had never been there.

Picking up the wand and pocketing it, he searched the end table for his Remembrall. _It has to be- it has to be something I've heard before and forgotten._ Finding the magical trinket under a copy of the _Prophet_ , he could see that the interior was red, though he kicked himself for getting excited, remembering that the damnable thing would only tell him when he had forgotten something, and it would often not be the thing he thought he forgot. _Enough of what I've forgotten- I've missed an entire year of school- all the things I never learned- where can I even start?  
_

Seeking to calm his racing mind he stepped out to the hallway where a bundle of blankets was sitting on a bench, probably a sleeping child, though he had no wish to bother him or her. Taking the stairs down, he searched for his parents' room, wondering if they had moved them. He had an urge to see his grandmother, to tell her he was alright again, and that he would resume his studies posthaste, but the urge to see his parents was stronger than his desire to put everything right with the world by way of a good old chewing out from Lady Longbottom. All of a sudden he froze, wondering if the same method of curing his insanity would work on his mother and father, not wanting to hope lest the idea turned out to bark up the wrong tree. For all his worth he knew he had to be strong and earn his title as the heir to the name, but in this moment he wanted his parents, his memories of them few and vague, hard to place in the stream of consciousness that was his feeble hold on the past. Struggling again to remember them as he followed the signs to their location, he swore, unable to recall more than feelings, notions of contentment and warmth.

His parents, to his disappointment, were exactly as he left them, if in a different place. Fortunately his grandmother was there to scold him, but to his surprise she did no such thing.

"I've missed you so, Neville," she admitted quickly before dropping a bit to embrace him. "It was a wonder getting to know your little friends," she added, causing him to imagine Ron, Hermione, Hannah, Ernie, and Draco with his henchmen Crabbe and Goyle standing around him.

"How are they?" he asked, not wanting to discuss his parents. _Perhaps it really is impossible..._

"I remember the young Malfoy being a little prat when he and the House Elf delivered your portrait here over holiday," she said, rising.

"Yeah, he's a bit of a prat," he admitted.

"Be glad that is the worst I can say of him. Did you ever hear of his father? I was sure the boy would be his double, but apparently he's capable of more." If Neville had heard of the Lord Malfoy, he had forgotten most of it. For that matter, he did not remember having a portrait, but that did not mean he never painted one.

"Everyone is, Gran," he offered.

"I should have known that if anyone could make a friend out of him it would be you, Neville. You're a bit like your mother that way."

For a moment he was uncertain if this was a weak word of praise, since the stately lady Longbottom had only tepidly approved of the woman who had wed her perfect son, but he decided she did say he was only a bit like her, meaning he was mostly like his father, which was probably the highest adulation she could manage. He only wished she would refrain from talking that way while they were in the room. Though it turned out that he had forgotten everything from being insane, if it were to be that his parents were cured, it was not certain that they would as well.

Wondering what to do next, if anything, since he did not even know the time of day, as he doubted the magical window was a real indicator, Neville looked around to see if his schoolbag were around; it was not in his own room.

"Your things are at the Manor," his grandmother explained, her aquiline eyes missing nothing at all. "Shall we?"

Touching her arm, the pair of them were away with the familiar sickening feeling of Side-Along Apparation. He had promised her he would not be sick again, but it was a difficult one to keep after rising to his feet, having not done so in a while. He was aware of a few of the charms the Healers and their assistants had been using to keep his body in order, as he could hardly take care of it, but they had not accounted for dizziness, though perhaps he was a special case. It would not be the first time, he decided after checking his Remembrall.

Oddly enough, his home was precisely as he remembered it, the plants watered and the exterior in perfect shape. He had previously been worried that going off to school would mean that the prized herbology of the Manor would go to waste, though it seemed it was possible the whole thing could be done magically, with the proper house-keeping charms. His grandmother had only tasked him with watering the plants as a boy to see him not grow into a lazy heir, though there was also the hope that giving him a chore with an incentive to remember it would help his memory. It turned out that both of the intents more or less played out as expected, though he doubted his memory was improving that much.

From what a few of the Healers said, there was this repeated suggestion that his memory loss was all in his head, but he knew better. He was simply forgetful, and he knew it was beyond what was normally expected. The same was expected of him in school, as was fair after a fashion, but to make matters worse he was going to have to catch up on quite a bit. He put the unpleasant thought on hold, though whenever he did that his mind seemed to have a habit of dumping everything else out.

Dinner that evening was prepared by the Longbottom matron herself, as it was a welcome-home affair for Neville, though she took care of everything with the same stiff voice as always. He was happy enough for a return to the normal way, in a manner of speaking.

Over lamb stew and asparagus he asked how things had been since Voldemort returned.

He had of course been brought up to speed about everything in Hogwarts, or everything the Healers knew, from the Death Eaters to the blood purists in Slytherin, though the news had been strangely empty of its main character, at least in his thinking. _Probably I'm just laboring with another one of my false impressions. Gran always said I had a fair few of those.  
_

"It has been driving me- It is a great displeasure and disconcert that there has been a lack of reporting on the vile man who put you in such a state," his grandmother opined. "I would like to say I doubt the _Prophet_ would refrain from covering him if they had any information, but as I could not say it with certainty, I shall not say it at all. Rather, if the way Cornelius has handled anything in the last few years is an indication, I expect knowledge of the return of Voldemort would be suppressed to the fullest possible extent for the longest possible time."

The old witch surprised him with her boldness in using the name, though he guessed that was Gryffindor blood. In her own day she had been the Head Girl, though it was something he forgot frequently and something of which he was reminded frequently. He was not sure whether he had or had not heard much of her school days. He checked his Remembrall, finding there was no red smoke in the glass. Neville supposed it meant he had not heard.

"Wouldn't they sell more papers if they printed the truth?" he asked.

"I expect they'll jump on it as soon as the secret's out, though not before. The _Prophet_ may be private, technically, though really every word of it is at the beck and call of the Minister, not the majority government." She set down a glass of wine. "I do not expect you to remember this. Be sure to write it down."

"Yes, Gran," he sighed. _I had better write my friends when I have the chance._

As they ate in silence he wondered what had befallen them, though he could not see his absence affecting too much. At most, it would warrant a visit from each of them, or perhaps all at once. He knew he had been no great help to any of them, except possibly Draco, unless he had been hit with another curse and Neville's sacrifice had been useless, which was possible, but unlikely. Though the Healers had said nothing about the young Slytherin, there was no way he had not visited. Though the boy who had insisted on being called Silver had no need of him, propriety would demand it. _I don't remember that French expression he had for the duties of the nobility._

Thinking on the subject as they finished the celebratory dinner, he decided he had no idea what his obligations as a noble were. Protecting Hogwarts seemed to fit under the duties of the _deuxieme état,_ as his Slytherin friend styled himself, and he supposed it was his responsibility as well, though if he had been informed of that, he had forgotten about it. _What I need to do is study._

Finding his way to the library after dark, he avoided the stair, which he knew creaked because his grandmother liked it that way. He chuckled to himself as he remembered telling Ernie a story in which he performed accidental magic, to the other boy's horror. Apparently, there was something abusive about dropping him out a window, but he explained that it was well enough, since it had the intended effect and Uncle Algie meant well, as his grandmother would remind him in the form of an earful.

"You never see birds waiting around for their young to be good and ready to fly," he recited at a whisper, finding the library behind the third door he checked. In fairness to his memory, Longbottom Manor was something of an impossible labyrinth, warped and stretched and expanded in all directions by what was called an Undetectable Extension Charm, something he was forbidden to practice under any circumstances, not even if he were being supervised by Albus and Cornelius, both of whose first names were deliberate choices of his grandmother. He was relatively sure that the result was that the Manor's interior compared to the exterior was rather like a ball of yarn and a thimble. _Of course, Gran might have used Trevor and a fly the last time she explained it._

The library was more or less as he had left it, since the home was always kept in proper order, and as a result he had every expectation he would be able to find everything he needed. The collection had most if not all of his coursework, though he was forbidden to take books out of the room, so he ended up buying a set every year, accompanied, lest he forget the knut-sickle-galleon ratios again. _Twenty and nine knuts to a sickle, or I'll turn you into a pickle. For sickles to galleons it is seven and ten, by Merlin, Neville, don't forget again._

Knowing he would be staying up late and his grandmother would give him an earful if he slept in the following morning, since he had slept so much the past year, he resolved to pay a visit to a friend on the morrow, hoping Silver or whoever would be none too disappointed if he dedicated an hour or so to a nap. As he retrieved the magical catalogue of the books, he stopped to think a moment.

He had little doubt his upbringing was correctly motivated. _Even if she doesn't show it, I know she loves me. Well, I guess she doesn't show it in ways other people understand._ There were times he wondered whether he would be better off with a more lax set of rules than the four hundred forty four that were engraved in the ceiling above his bed, though if they were all written for his benefit, the only matter in question was whether or not his grandmother understood what would benefit him. She seemed to think highly of her own son, whom she and her husband must have raised rather well for her to approve of him. Thinking of his grandfather, he missed him in his heart, though he remembered very little. Every so often he felt bad for not remembering him, especially when he usually tried so hard to remember his parents, but there was nothing for it.

 _Gran never stops talking about my dad, but never my grandad. She won't utter one word about him._

Not daring to hope that his father would ever remember other family members for him, he decided that no matter what, he would remember his grandmother well, not as the stately, decorous, and well-known Lady Longbottom, the mother of his father, but the woman who waved away the bite he received from a rather nasty gnome at the age of five. He had to apologize to the gnome for being in its territory, but he would forget that eventually.

Pulling out the first book on a long list he knew he would do well to write down, he took it over to a table and started to read.

"Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them," he muttered as he opened it. "About this book... I'm sure that's not important."

Neville turned the page, his Remembrall sitting on the table, ever at hand should the need arise.

 **A/N: Thank you for reading _Slytherin's Monster_. I hope you liked it and as always, feel free to review, even if it's been years since I posted this. The story will continue with _Greater and More Terrible_ , the third work in the series.**


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